


Infamy and Remorse

by spankingfemme



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bondage, Bottom Ramsay Bolton, Corporal Punishment, Dacryphilia, Domestic Discipline, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Femdom, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Multi, Non-Consensual Spanking, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 10:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20172388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spankingfemme/pseuds/spankingfemme
Summary: A what if? deviation to S6E2 of Game of Thrones where Ramsay's attempt at patricide fails to produce the results he hopes for. Roose takes in the bigger picture of how the assassination attempt came about and intends (much to Ramsay's detriment) to bring back order to his house. The history of house Bolton will never be the same!





	1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> Later chapters to include the Starks, but no spoilers outside the above warnings! :P

WARNING! This is a mature story meant for adult readers! If you're the squeamish type that cannot take in distressing physical or emotional situations or are easily triggered, this story is not for you! It contains themes that deal with rape, abuse, and torture. (It's a story where the main characters are the Boltons, so that should give a mild indication that it's not going to be fluffy although there will be no main character deaths, mutilations, or grotesque gore since this is a gift fic hubby is writing for me, and he knows what I like! ;) As a side note, I'm a sucker for redemption, so although Ramsay has a long hard road ahead of him, the end goal will be reformation. Anyways, enough of my babbling, enjoy! =D

Audio version: [https://app.box.com/s/ur2w8fvmuax9ce76is08g4gyueh4soqm](https://app.box.com/s/ur2w8fvmuax9ce76is08g4gyueh4soqm)

Chapter One

Betrayal

The wind howled over the stony edifice of Winterfell, which solemnly met the snow that swept in from even further north. For generations those rocky walls stood stoically against one winter after the other, a bastion against the cold for those that dwelt inside. For generations those that ruled the North from that keep had been of House Stark.

No longer, however. The blue banners depicting the dire wolf sigil of that once great House were nowhere to be seen now, having been replaced by the flayed man banners of House Bolton. Through treachery and deception the Boltons betrayed the Starks, despite having been bannermen to them for over a century.

Roose Bolton had been dubbed the new Warden of the North by the Lannisters of King's Landing, whom he had conspired with to murder Rob Stark and all of his family at the event that had come to be called the Red Wedding. The one time King of the North had been filled with bolts and then beheaded on a day that had been meant for celebration.

In one night of blood and villainy Roose had secured more for his House than any before him had ever accomplished, but as he stood upon the parapet of that monolithic structure, looking out at the vast reaches of the frozen tundra he was now Warden of, he still let out a despondent sigh. It didn't matter that the Lannisters promised him security.

They were a thousand miles away over treacherous terrain and winter was coming. It didn't matter that Rob Stark was dead; he still had living kin. Jon Snow was a bastard true, but so was Roose's only living heir Ramsay; a bastard could yet carry the torch when there was simply no one else to do so. Roose glanced back along the stony halls behind him.

Back within his chambers his relatively new wife Walda Frey, now Walda Bolton, lay advanced in pregnancy, and the Maester promised Roose a boy, though it was yet too early to know for certain. Ramsay had surprised Roose, both in his initiative and his ambition, and done much to secure the Bolton's residence within this frozen reach.

When he had been the only heir, of course. Jon Snow was now the only heir to the Stark legacy, along with his sister Sansa Stark, whom Ramsay had foolishly allowed to escape from Winterfell. And Jon Snow was now acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Roose had no doubts as to where Sansa would have gone after her daring escape from the Boltons.

Would Jon Snow rally the Night's Watch against Roose? Was that even possible? Roose scratched at his thin wispy grey beard as he thought. He didn't actually know much about the Night's Watch, other than that they were stationed at the Wall to defend against Wildling raiders. He would imagine that they wouldn't wish to be embroiled in politics, but Roose wasn't certain what code they lived by. And Jon was Lord Commander.

He was Lord Commander and they were sworn to follow his command, so if that bastard decided to march every single one of the Wall's defenders south to take back his ancestral home from Roose Bolton, it would seem they would be obliged to do just that. Roose's spies had informed him that the Wall was lightly manned these days.

With all of the sudden losses due to the treacherously cold weather of the far north along with the resurgence of persistent Wildling attacks upon the defenders, the Night's Watch had maybe a hundred seasoned men capable of waging war, with little else to pull from save ill-trained stewards, the old, and the ill.

There had been unsettling reports most recently, however. Apparently Jon Snow was brokering peace with the ancestral enemies to all Northmen. While it was good that his doing so could very well alienate him from all of the other Houses of the North, Roose had no idea how many Wildlings such a move could add to his ranks.

And of course there was Sansa Stark. Apart from Jon's efforts at the Watch she could use the very birthright that Roose had wanted to secure for the Boltons against them. She could rally every other House in the North under her banner if she proved the mettle for it. Roose didn't know if she did, but he knew what the other Houses felt of him, and he had never been in so much danger.

The fucking Lannisters… Tywin had been murdered by his own son and now his fool daughter promised him security, but Roose knew better. He had overplayed his hand, and now he was going to have to struggle just to survive. His gloved hands traced the stonework before him absently as he thought; had he brought the Bolton House to ruin? Would Roose be the one who ended their legacy?

Marrying Sansa Stark to Ramsay had been a desperate gambit to placate the rest of the North, but even in doing that it had never felt like it would be nearly enough. Especially seeing as Ramsay had adopted a particularly cruel streak in dealing with those that were now their subjects, which did not endear him or the Bolton name with the locals.

Of course, that had been before Sansa had escaped. Her departure meant that not only was that card no longer on the table diplomatically, but once the other Houses found out how Ramsay had mistreated her, they were going to be on even worse terms with the others. House Bolton, despite centuries of service to the North, was now a pariah to it.

Enemies on all sides. For certainly once Cersei had learned of Roose's bold move in marrying his son to Sansa, whom Cersei hated and considered a traitor to the crown, she would see Roose also as a traitor. His only boon in that particular burnt bridge was in the fact that Cersei was in just as poor a stance to march north to attack him as she would have been to aid him.

Besides all these woes, though, nothing concerned him as much as the actions of his eldest son, Ramsay Bolton. Roose had hoped that by having him naturalized that Ramsay would in some way change for the better. The boy had always fawned over Roose's attention, ever since he had moved into the Dread Fort back when he was around ten years of age.

As he'd grown to manhood, Ramsay had shown a keen love for the darker side of House Bolton, embracing some of the measures taken by Roose's forbears and indeed by Roose himself with an uncanny zeal. Roose had always seen torturing his enemies as a necessary tool that could be satisfying if one truly hated one's enemy.

Ramsay, though… he relished hurting people, even people whom he had no reason to find quarrel with, and he seemed always looking for a new victim. Roose had wished that with added responsibilities and power that Ramsay would mature away from his violent games, perhaps learn from the father he so avidly emulated.

But the young bastard had always seemed to lack the ability to see the bigger picture. He tended to react to any given situation based on how he felt at the time, and while he clearly had the ability to lay cunning plans when needed, he rarely bothered to think past the satisfaction of whatever short-term goal he currently attended.

Roose warned him time and again, yet his words had fallen on deaf ears. Was it too late? Could the Boltons even pull themselves from the mess all this treachery had landed them in? Roose had summoned Harold Karstark, son of Robert Karstark of that great House. Rob Stark had beheaded the man's father for treason during his war with the Lannisters.

If anyone would be set against the possibility of Sansa Stark mounting some sort of resurgence of her House in the north, it would be Harold. At least, that was what Roose had to hope. With the Karstarks on their side, Roose might yet convince the Umbers to join him in solidifying his hold upon the north, saving the Boltons from inevitable collapse.

He let out a long breath, steadying himself for the meeting to come. He needed to put fear aside; now was the time when he needed to be more than his apprehension, more than his concerns. He needed to be sharp and discerning if he wanted to save his House tonight. Roose watched as the vapors of his breath froze upon the chill air around him; it was going to be a cold night.

Roose knew that Harold was within Winterfell; from his viewpoint atop the parapets he had beheld the Karstark lord and his armored entourage long before they had broached the gates of the keep, their sun banners whipping above them in the chill wind. He knew that by now the young lord would have already been waiting for his arrival in the war room.

That was expected; Roose liked to have the other lords wait for his arrival. It showed them that he did things on his own time, and would not be rushed to action for the convenience of one of the other lords of Westeros. What Roose was not expecting was that his son Ramsay would arrive early to the meeting, which was very much not like Ramsay.

The Warden of the North glanced at both men and then entered, taking a casual stance before the war map that was situated in the very center of the room. A detailed portrayal of Westeros lay upon a sturdy oaken table there, with ornately crafted stone pieces atop of it at various locations, the carved imagery of other Houses denoting the locations of potential enemies.

So many enemies, and on all sides of the flayed man statues that represented House Bolton. Roose took a moment to remove any traces of concern he might have felt over this before turning his icy blue eyes upon Harold. The Karstark, like his son, had chosen not to sit and yet remained standing, so Roose decided to conduct their meeting on his feet as well, forgoing any urging for them to sit.

As usual, Roose allowed his guest to do most of the talking; he had always found that a man learned more by listening than speaking. He learned of the more recent movements of his potential enemies, and had just begun to properly scold Ramsay for his recklessness when they were all interrupted. It was a shame too, because Roose had finally decided to properly chastise the boy.

The annoyance at having the Maester intrude upon the small war meeting faded quickly at the words that passed from the portly man's lips; he was officially the father of two sons. Roose's entire day brightened; all of the dark brooding thoughts he had held for so long at least temporarily held at bay by such a fantastic prospect.

Ever since Roose's only legitimate heir had died of illness, the aging Bolton had prayed to any of the gods old or new that might yet grant him another son, one whom would unquestionably carry the Bolton birthright into the future. He had long since given up at the task, and only recently began to try again with Walda.

Of course, Roose had held no real hopes that she would take seed; Walda was young enough, but Roose had been fairly certain that he himself was past the time of fathering children. Yet here it was, the baby had been born without fatal complication, and a boy at that… an heir at last! Roose's delight cooled considerably when he finally took note of Ramsay's demeanor.

A moment before, Ramsay's face had registered annoyance and slight mollification at his father's stern reprimand concerning Ramsay's bold ideas about storming Castle Black and taking the fight to the bastard son of Ned Stark, but now that had fallen away entirely as the revelation of what Roose's new child's birth brought to him.

Roose felt suddenly sorry for the boy. After all, Ramsay had spent many years faithfully abiding at least most of Roose's commands, ever eager to prove himself a good son, so as to earn himself some modicum of status. He had gained more than any bastard Roose could think of, yet it must still sting to know that he might be second to a more legitimate heir.

The Warden of the North approached his naturalized son, placing his arms upon Ramsay perhaps more warmly than he ever had in all of the entirety of their lives together, making sure that Ramsay could look him in the eye as he spoke with a reassuring smile, "You shall always be my firstborn son." He leaned in then, hugging Ramsay as affirmation of his words.

What Roose expected was for Ramsay to be stiff and uncomfortable with the expression of fondness; after all they had not once ever done anything so familiar, so close as hugging one another. What Roose did not expect was the blade. Roose heard his son say something in his ear, but the only thing that his attention could rest upon was the gleaming knife that stabbed for his heart.

It all happened in a flash, and Roose let out a startled grunt at the feeling of the knife impacting his torso. In the briefest moment of time many things about that day became clear to Roose Bolton. He knew now why Ramsay had arrived uncharacteristically early to the war meeting; he must have been laying down his own plans with Harold, whom seemed unsurprised by Ramsay's treachery.

Also, a few days before Ramsay had offered to have Roose's armor cleaned for him; not an unusual offer, as Ramsay often did his best to attend Roose in any way that might curry favor. He was almost like a needy puppy at times with his eagerness, and Roose had thought nothing of it. Ramsay had wanted him unarmored for this eventuality.

When Roose's arm shot out and his calloused hand gripped Ramsay by the neck his son's eyes bulged in surprise. He had looked a little sad in his moment of ultimate betrayal, Roose noted, but now only shock dominated his features. Ramsay would have stammered out something in response to this unexpected outcome, his hand dimly registering that his knife had not bitten into flesh.

At least, he would have, but the fingers wrapped around his throat stopped that before it could start. Ramsay would also have glanced down if his father's gripping hand had not been blocking any attempt to do that from the vantage he was in, but even without looking he knew that Roose Bolton was unscathed from the surprise attack that his son had just launched.

The Warden of the North glanced over at Harold and his Maester in turn, both clearly taken aback by this outcome, the Maester likely because he didn't know of the impending threat any more than Roose had, and likely Harold because he had expected Roose to die today. Roose's other hand had clamped solidly upon the wrist in which Ramsay held the offending blade.

With a painful, tight twist, Roose wrenched that arm until Ramsay let go of the knife and it fell clattering to the stone floor. His other hand still holding Ramsay by the throat as Roose regarded his son with coolly burning blue eyes, "You have betrayed your father, your House, the very name that you sought to validate you have driven into the mud today."

Roose glanced at the Maester, "Call the guard, my son is to be imprisoned below until I have decided a suitable form of punishment fitting the crime."

The portly Maester nodded, clearly uncomfortable with not only what had just transpired but also the fragile air of menace within the room among the three men. He hurried away to comply.

The room was swept up in a pall of absolute silence then, just before Roose gave Ramsay a solid push that sent him careening back into the war table. Carved figurines clattered and skittered across the stone floor as Ramsay doubled partly backward as the small of his back collided with hard oaken furniture.

Harold took a step back and froze when Roose glanced his way. The Warden returned his attention to Ramsay, whose eyes continued to shudder between Roose and the knife that he had dropped upon the floor.

"Go for it, boy, prove to us all that you are absolutely full of bad ideas. Was betraying me once not enough for you?"

Ramsay's jaw worked as he held his father's intense gaze for a few moments, but then his own eyes fell to the floor, unable to face the challenge of Roose's glare. A few moments later any chance for Ramsay to continue his attack evaporated like the morning mist, as four soldiers burst into the room, grabbing ahold of Ramsay and giving Harold menacing looks.

Clearly the Maester had possessed the necessary sense to find guardsmen whom would more likely favor Roose than Ramsay during this attempted coup, and two of them hauled Ramsay away as had been originally commanded as the other two remained to make Harold feel uncomfortable for whatever part he might have had to play in it.

Of course, Harold had not actually had any real part in Ramsay's machinations, though he had been aware of it, but this part as well he did his best to play down under the glowering scrutiny of the Warden and his guardsmen, "I had a feeling that bastard's half-assed effort would yield such a result… once a bastard always a bastard… right?"

Roose only continued to level a scathing look at the current 'Lord of the Karstarks', his hand absently trailing to where Ramsay's knife had scarred the thick leather baldric under his shirt and scratched the chainmail behind that. Roose had decided to wear his spare armor today because of his meeting with the Karstark boy.

He had never imagined that it would have to serve him against his own son. He dropped his hand, not wanting Harold to see his reminiscence in his actions, "So what did my son tell you; that you were to gain some share of my holdings in return for your lack of action in his coup? I invite you into my home to speak openly, and you betrayed me before I entered the room."

Harold stood up tall, mustering his resolve to stand against the accusation, "We were not yet allied, and I can hardly help if you had so little control over your own family… since you seem to have that in hand now…"

The Warden's lip curled in disgust, "With this as testament of how far I can trust you? Leave while you still retain feet to leave with."

Clearly Harold took umbrage with this statement, but he also knew the reputation that the Boltons had and clearly didn't want to test it, so he bottled up what he wanted to say and instead left hurriedly.

Roose stood there a while longer, staring at the rumpled war map. The two guards that had come in with those that had taken Ramsay away remained, and they likely thought that Roose must be planning on what to do now that his options for allies had just become even narrower, but all Roose Bolton could think or feel on now was what his son had done.

Yes, Ramsay was no prize; he had often acted belligerently, unruly, ungratefully, and selfishly, but never had he shown so much as the smallest measure of actual malice for his father. Roose tried to think back on the last things they had spoken of, trying hard to glean where their relationship had changed so violently.

He had not so long ago regaled to Ramsay the story of how he had spared the bastard son when he had been but an infant. Ramsay's mother had brought Ramsay to Roose, perhaps thinking that by doing so he would gift her in some way, and Roose had swept the child from her arms and walked straightaway to do the only logical thing the situation merited.

Which was to drop the unwanted progeny down a well. Plenty of lords bore bastard sons, but they always brought shame to the House regardless of this fact, and Roose knew the peasant mother of his bastard hated him more than enough to spread tale of his fatherhood and… how he had fathered Ramsay. So the best option was to kill the infant.

He couldn't do it though. People could say what they wanted about Roose Bolton; he was most certainly a murderer on occasion, when his blood had been up, or when he had been extracting bloody vengeance, but he was no child killer. When he looked into the blue eyes of the baby he held outstretched before him, he saw himself.

What kind of man murdered his own progeny, bastard or no? So he had told himself that day that all of those north men who held so tightly to the traditions concerning bastard children could just go fuck themselves. Of course, he had not relayed all of the feelings he had that day to Ramsay when he'd told him; he'd only expressed that he had spared Ramsay because he was clearly his own son.

Perhaps Ramsay had not taken that accounting as Roose had intended, which was to gain an appreciation for the chance Roose gave him every day to not only live but thrive. Maybe Ramsay had instead taken the tale as another example of how little regard Roose held him in, that his father would have considered killing him in the first place.

Reflecting now in the attitude of complete self-honesty, Roose had to admit that he had been rather stern with Ramsay in nearly every meeting they had held since the boy had moved into the castle. Roose had told himself that treating Ramsay as an upstart from the beginning would challenge his bastard son to rise above his muddled bloodline.

But Roose felt doubtless as to what Ramsay had actually taken away from all of those tough lectures, all of that aloof parenting; he had clearly assumed that Roose actually felt disdain for him as a bastard. If Roose reached deep down inside himself, as he now did, he could in fact realize that some core part of him did aspire to some of the same prejudices that his father before him had held towards fatherless children.

Perhaps Ramsay had seen that ugly truth more than Roose had known, and now was convinced that his father had only ever loathed him, keeping him around only because he had no other options… was that what Roose had been doing? As Roose stood there leaning into the table, his brow furrowed with under the gaze of truthful self-scrutiny, he wondered just how many mistakes he had made of this nature.

Of course, Ramsay would remember every incident with the clarity that can only be attributed to the youthful and eager, no matter how trivial Roose might have thought an off-hand comment to be, Ramsay would have taken it all to heart… how much of a hand had Roose had in creating the horrible monster that his son had become?

After all, Roose was opening the vault on honesty in this self-analysis, so it was time to truly accept how terrible Ramsay had become. His actions towards others weren't simply 'zealous' or 'impassioned', he was in fact a homicidal maniac, and he had been for some time now. Ramsay didn't just carry out some of the crueler traditions of House Bolton; he had invented quite a few new ones.

And if that was what his son truly was, then it was now Roose's obligation to do something about it. Roose felt a pang of self-critical guilt and shame in that it had taken his attempted murder to really give the situation he had with his son the thought it deserved. He felt suddenly like not only a terrible father, which he had always thought he might be, but also a foolish lord.

So what now? Roose reached a hand back and ran it calmly through his thinning hair from the receding hairline at the top of his skull to the back, wanting the whole time to grab a tuft of his own hair and yank at it savagely in the height of his frustration. But he could not give in to such showy displays of emotion; his guards were still watching, even if they looked like they weren't.

Roose could not allow himself to fall apart, not even in the perceptions of those that observed him. He tapped a finger to his light, greying beard as he thought. The first solution that came to mind would certainly have fit the operations of the former Warden of the North; to behead Ramsay publicly for his crimes.

However, Roose was no Stark, Ramsay was still his son bastard or no, and the Warden could not help but feel at least partly responsible for the mess he was in. His own father had often counseled him that no man fell into a trap completely at the whim of fate; that man first had to put his own feet in the wrong place. Roose would be a fool to discount his own liability in Ramsay's creation, so it was his duty to at least try to fix the problem before resorting to an easy execution, which would reduce him to one infant child and felt like running from the problem rather than facing it.

No, Roose was going to need to approach the problem as a situation that needed repair, rather than shear his already dwindling House further. Standing up tall as he decided upon his resolution, Roose turned on his heel and marched down towards the dungeon. It was about time that he made his best effort to get Ramsay Bolton to take his father seriously.


	2. Rumination

Chapter 2: Rumination

Audio version: [https://app.box.com/s/rfgv3ebwefej7mf9p56p0e68pb5bhefv](https://app.box.com/s/rfgv3ebwefej7mf9p56p0e68pb5bhefv)

It was dark down in the dungeon, but lit enough that one could still see how squalid and infested it was, the occasional scamper of large rodents visible in the periphery of the gloom cast by the few torches that burned upon sconces spaced inadequately to light the entire room. Ramsay had always loved this room most of all though.

A smile sat upon his face despite the circumstances; Ramsay had always been the sort to feel that smiling at death was a far better way to die than weeping, begging or soiling oneself. Besides, he was almost genuinely amused to be upon the very rack that he had tied Reek… no, Theon… to. Theon Greyjoy had perched here for weeks before Ramsay had broken him.

Theon should have been grateful too, because Ramsay didn't bring just anyone to the dungeon for such extracurricular activity, no he saved it for the really special or lucky individuals, like his Reek. Ramsay had continued to smile up until his thoughts touched on Theon again, at which point the smile fell away to be replaced with a frown.

He had gotten away, after all. No, worse than that. Reek had betrayed him and returned to being that sniveling wretch Theon Greyjoy. Ramsay had been so very certain that he had broken the man completely, wrapped him around his finger so tightly that he could never escape… but he supposed it was Sansa whom had changed that.

She must have said or done something, or perhaps Ramsay had not accounted for the strength of their sibling love for one another, despite the circumstances that had placed Theon as a Ward within Stark walls. It was bitter irony, but Ramsay had intentionally tested their bond by doing things like having Theon give Sansa away at their wedding…

And of course by making Theon watch as he took her on his wedding night. Ramsay had thought it all so very amusing to watch the agony that clearly played out across the faces of both victims of that game, but he had never once thought that Reek would actually be moved enough by such cruelty to turn on him, to whisk Sansa away from Winterfell to safety.

Life was just full of ironies like this one. When Ramsay had offered to have his father's armor cleaned, he had been absolutely certain that Roose would trust that it was an earnest request to earn yet more favor. After all, Ramsay had been swallowing his pride for so many years now, day in and day out he had labored to make his father happy.

Somehow the old man had seen the betrayal coming. Of course he had… Ramsay mentally berated himself for being foolish enough to think that Roose Bolton had forgotten the suspicious circumstances of his prior heir's death. Ramsay had poisoned him, of course, and the Maester had been unable to determine the cause of death, merely announcing that it was 'stomach illness'.

It wasn't, though. Ramsay had killed that boy because he had been soft and stupid, and because he stood between Ramsay and his dreams of becoming something more than the unwanted bastard of a miller's wife. He had gotten away with the act so cleanly that perhaps he had failed to see his father's suspicion.

Had Roose always been waiting for the knife? It would certainly explain the cold way that he had treated Ramsay since the day that he had arrived at the Dread Fort at the age of ten. Though Ramsay could have sworn that Roose was aloof to him even before he murdered his half-brother, one of the reasons he had done it.

No, that couldn't be it. Ramsay had known his entire life that Roose Bolton could be as manipulative as any Westerosi lord, but the surprise in his father's face when Ramsay had gone at him with the knife had been real enough. Ramsay's stomach turned when he thought again of the look of betrayed trust that had planted itself on Roose's features.

Right before it had all evaporated to the heat of vengeful anger, that is. Ramsay would have liked to tell himself that he was unafraid of his father's wrath, but the truth had always been that the lord of the Dread Fort had inspired just as much timid respect in Ramsay as any of the others, which Ramsay had always thought a feat, since he had a penchant for boldness.

So if Roose had not been expecting the knife that could only have placed the fact that he was wearing another set of armor on dumb luck. Or fate. For a long time now Ramsay had lived in a sort of reverence of himself as if he had become like a god, for no matter what he did to anyone, he never really had to pay for it.

Perhaps now the gods had finally enacted their plan for him to suffer for what he had done for all these years, as penance for all of his myriad sins. Ramsay smiled at the thought, half afraid and half amused at the notion; he would have to spend a very long time indeed in dying to make up for the extensive suffering he had brought into the world.

To be honest, he was fairly certain that it was impossible for him to suffer that much before injury claimed him in any torture that he could come up with. Ramsay had been hurting people for many years now, and though he only had a few truly great masterpieces like Reek and what he had done to Sansa Stark, he murdered dozens of others.

And of course there was the truly terrible thing he had planned to do; something he wouldn't be doing now that his father had snuffed out his coup before it could rightly begin. Ramsay had planned to feed Walda and his newborn baby brother to his hounds, so as to end any chance for the baby to grow up and challenge his right to rule.

People said many harsh things about Ramsay Bolton that were entirely merited; he had become like unto a monster devoid of human emotion, but Ramsay above all knew that this was not the case. He did feel, and murdering a baby would have been difficult no matter how much he told himself it needed to be done.

At least his father had spared him that particular sin, or perhaps the fate he dreamed of and the gods behind it had stepped in to intercede. Ramsay had rampaged about, doing whatever he liked whenever he felt like it for so very long. Back in the war room his father had been lecturing him sternly again about his behavior but Ramsay hadn't been hearing him.

Perhaps he should have paid attention, taken notice of that writing on the wall, that early warning that he was taking things too far, that his reckless activity was going to finally be the end of him. He supposed that had not been the only warning that Ramsay had witnessed within his lifetime, not by far. It hadn't been so very long ago.

Back when he had lost his Reek. Not Theon Greyjoy, whom he had named in honor of the servant whom had taught him so many things in life, but the original Reek. The man that his father had sent out to the mill to assist his mother in caring for him when he was a younger child, after his mother had harassed Roose enough to do so.

That Reek had been the first to treat Ramsay with respect and deference; in fact, he had groveled constantly before Ramsay and spoken at length on Ramsay's lordliness. It had been refreshing to receive such treatment, being as Ramsay was the unwanted bastard of a miller's widow whom clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

She let Ramsay do what he liked, only bothering to provide him basic care so that she could continue collecting support from Roose for his existence, but otherwise turning her nose to him and curling her lip at the 'troublesome child'. She had labeled him a little monster while he was still within her womb, so when Reek began to show him how fun it could be to play monster…

But that was all over now. Ramsay had failed to learn how close the gods had come to punishing him the day that those villagers had caught on to the games that Reek and he had played with their daughters. They had come for Ramsay, and Reek had sacrificed himself, whether intended or not, so that Ramsay might escape.

It had been a shock to Ramsay at that time, when that Reek had died. In a way Ramsay had believed the odious man when he had whispered all of his promises to serve Ramsay forever. Ramsay supposed he had turned his heart hard to the sight of Reek swinging from that rope, to the thought that it could easily have been Ramsay that swung there.

This sort of reminiscence Ramsay had often done his best to avoid. So many times he had told himself that Reek meant nothing to him; that he was just another servant, as expendable as the rest. But then he had gone and named the reborn Theon Greyjoy after his former mentor, hadn't he? Not only that, he had tried to mold him into the image of his lost servant.

Theon was not Reek, though, no matter how much Ramsay might have wanted it to be so. Ramsay felt that he must have gotten something in his eyes, because they began to tear up at the thought that Reek was gone, had been for a long time now, and wasn't coming back. He needed to focus himself on something more pleasant, his mood was darkening by the moment.

Theon had been an evil little creature, pretending that he was earnest when Ramsay had opened himself to him. The feeling was bitter in his gut now, as he thought of how much he had allowed Theon to see the weakest part of him, that part that still needed validation from his Reek, which still wanted there to be someone who professed love for him.

"Do you love me, Reek?" he had said so very plainly. He could tell at that time when Theon flinched at the words, that his poor abused servant surely thought this another game of which there were no good endings, so he reacted as always with fear. He didn't answer for a moment, afraid of what the wrong answer might be.

Of course, Theon had not known the expected answer either, which only made his vexation over the matter that much more acute. Eventually though his fear of punishment for not answering created enough urge for him to blurt out something, so he told Ramsay that he loved him. The fucking little liar. Ramsay sneered at the thought.

If he were ever to get his hands on Theon Greyjoy, he would make sure to finish what he had started. He would put is best effort into preserving Theon's life as long as possible whilst he cut away every other part of him, until he was whittled to nothing at all, and disappeared forever for his treachery. Ramsay still bore that sneer when the door suddenly opened.

Ramsay's eyes squinted against the seeming glare of what was essentially only slightly brighter light from the hallway beyond, but the room he was in had been so murky for so long that his eyes were ill-adjusted to suddenly finding more illumination. Heavy booted footfalls announced his father's arrival even before Ramsay could get a good look at his visitor.

Roose Bolton was staring at his son in that shrewd way that he stared at most anyone; as if measuring him up in one sweeping gaze, and finding him wanting. Perhaps that last part was only a projection that Ramsay imagined, but the cold light from his father's blue eyes promised no warmth to contradict such a notion.

"You stand accused of treason against not only the head of your House but the Warden of the Realm in which you reside, in addition to your crimes of attempted murder and sedition. How do you plea?"

His son only stared at him dumbly a moment after the statement, his expression one of surprise that Roose chose those words.

Finally Ramsay let an amused chuckle crack his lips in a sort of sideways smile as he scoffed, "I don't suppose you think I'm touched enough to plea 'Not Guilty' when my judge and executioner was both a witness and the victim?" Ramsay seemed to sober at the seriousness of his own peril then, his face straightening, "I'm guilty. Why not send me to the Wall? I could kill Jon Snow for you…"

Annoyance flashed past Roose Bolton's eyes in a dark look that Ramsay knew well, for apparently he had a talent for doing and saying things that irritated his father, "And then what? You would murder the Commander of the Night's Watch when I am already nearly at war with every other House in the North? I think the Wall isn't an option for you for too many obvious reasons."

The last vestiges of mirth had completely vanished from Ramsay's features now. This was it; his sentence. His execution sentence. All that was left was to see which form death would take for him. Given Roose's famous ire and past actions, it could be terrible painful for a long time before Ramsay finally found death, given the nature of his crimes.

Roose managed to surprise him, though, as Ramsay had begun to think his father rather predictable. The Warden scratched at his chin as he looked Ramsay over, "I'm considering something outside of the scope of what our family has traditionally done. I have decided to spare your miserable life despite all you've tried to do."

Ramsay felt as if he had been slapped in the face, his shock was so great. A part of him wanted to be violently enthusiastic, joyfully so, over this news. However, the cautious side of him that he had left so underdeveloped in life nonetheless reared itself immediately at such words given amidst Roose's baleful stare. He might live, but perhaps he would wish he were dead.

There were all sorts of clever things Ramsay might have said in the face of such double-edged, fateful, ominous news, perhaps something to help his father remember how keen he could be even when so thoroughly caught unawares, but all Ramsay managed was to give him a slack-jawed look and say, "What?"

Needless to say this left Ramsay feeling rather underwhelmed at his own ability to draw out his father's reasoning and motive, but Roose Bolton had in one moment turned Ramsay's perception of what sort of man his father was on its head, leaving him baffled as to where he could begin his own line of intelligent questioning, so he only dully drawled, "Why?"

Roose arched one brow as he gave Ramsay a calculated look of mock surprise that Ramsay would be so silly as to ask, "Our House, small in actual number as it is, currently beset on all sides by hostile forces and you question why I might not be so hasty as to execute my only adult child? But then, you likely intended to murder your brother and Walda, did you not?"

His son stiffened at the accurate question, which reasonably enough made him feel acutely uncomfortable under the judgmental stare of his father. Roose went on, "You would have reduced our family to just you; a bastard naturalized by a king who is likely now our enemy, with no progeny and whose wife has run away to join more potential enemies."

Under this barrage of scrutiny Ramsay finally found his proper voice, "I would have managed. I was to ally with the Karstarks and then the Umbers. I'd have lured the bastard Stark here and brought my wife home to me…"

The Warden grimaced at Ramsay's audacity to defend his actions with such frail plans, "And how exactly would you get Jon Snow to come?"

That particular point of his plans had not yet been finalized, and Ramsay was well aware that he was still gambling as always… but why not gamble when you always seemed to win? At least, until lately… "We have a man beyond the wall, Locke, posing as a member of the Night's Watch. He could gain the location of where the Stark boys are hiding, since we know from Theon that they live…"

Another annoyed expression flitted across Roose's countenance, but as always, the man didn't allow himself to entertain petty emotions for very long. Instead he sighed at Ramsay, as if exasperated in dealing with an intractable imbecile, "Could? He could do many things, including die in a hundred ways from the hundred threats his dangerous mission entails, yielding you nothing."

His son started to speak again but Roose had clearly had enough of his words at the moment, because his gloved hand slapped over Ramsay's mouth, muffling whatever comment he had intended to make, "Let's pretend this wasn't a stupid risk, and that Locke brought you what you needed to lure Snow here… are you telling me that you think you could beat him, the Night's Watch, Jon's Wildling friends and who knows whom else you would call down on yourself?"

Roose pulled his hand away savagely, jerking Ramsay's head roughly with the motion, glaring twin suns at his son as he continued to speak, "You think you can declare mastery over everything you see with grand posturing, threats and violence, still you fail to understand the measure of your own hubris. It's about time you realized how small you actually are compared to how large you imagine yourself to be."

Ramsay smiled at him. Of course he smiled at him; it was Ramsay's go-to maneuver for every situation. He smiled when things went awry just as much as when they went as planned. But Roose was clearly not interested in seeing a smile of any type, nervous or otherwise. The Warden straightened, his countenance visibly darkening.

This caused Ramsay's smile to falter a bit, something that happened only rarely, as Roose gestured to the men to each side of him, "Hurt him, and keep hurting him until he understands the position he's in."

Ever since they had entered the room Ramsay had been far more concerned with Roose than the two men that flanked him, but he gave them notice now.

A tall, lanky man with a waspish face and wavy long hair stood to his left, giving Ramsay a grin that he knew all too well. Sadism was a second skin to Ramsay after all, so it was very easy for him to pick up on it in others. The even taller but rather stocky, portly man to his right seemed at least to care less for the activity, scowling at Ramsay like he was a job to finish.

This sort of man was also easy to read; he would be attempting to get the torturing over with quickly. While an inexperienced person might think that this would be an improvement over the man to the left whom wanted Ramsay to suffer, what it actually meant was that the fat one was going to increase the level of pain exponentially to achieve results. In other words, things were about to get very violent, fast.

He wasn't disappointed; the man to his right disappeared for a few moments, but returned fairly quickly with a rolled leather satchel. Ramsay knew what was contained within the pockets of that satchel even before the portly man unrolled it upon the table before Ramsay. An array of bladed instruments, some sharp, some dull, others with curved or spiraled blades.

The hasty torturer reached casually for one of the bladed objects and grabbed Ramsay by the hair at the back of his head, pressing the sharp length of it against the soft exposed skin under his chin in a practiced manner, clearly leaning it for the first cut. Ramsay had done enough flaying to know that the staple of his family was about to be enacted on him.

The bastard of House Bolton felt his heart hammer against his ribs and his breathing became suddenly erratic at the realization that it had finally happened; his past had caught up to him. He was going to feel pain like he had only ever been able to imagine in watching it inflicted on others. His father interrupted at that point though, clearing his throat with an air of authority.

"I believe I already mentioned that Ramsay is to be surviving this experience."

The big man nodded, responding dully, "I've done this plenty, milord; I'll make sure he lives. He's just gonna be…"

"Hideously scarred." Roose finished for him. The other man leaned away from Ramsay, removing the blade as it became clear that the Warden did not approve. "If I'm going to make any use of him later, he needs to be presentable."

The torturer licked his lips, looking appropriately apologetic as he took a few steps back. The lanky man on the other side of Ramsay nodded reassuringly though, "No problem, milord. We'll just need a little time with him to find methods that will work without scarring."

Roose let out a sigh, "Very well. I'll return tomorrow. Be diligent; I want to see some remorse from him for once."

With that, the Warden of the North turned upon his heel and marched from the room, leaving his two lackeys to their work. The long-haired man whom had promised results was smiling as he watched his lord leave the room, but his smile faltered when his gaze returned to the ties form of Ramsay resting upon the rack.

As soon as it had become clear that their methods would not include any of the more severe ones that Ramsay knew so well, his own smile had begun to creep into his features, until he was grinning from ear to ear by the time Roose had turned his back upon the situation. It was a confident gesture that was all too familiar to Ramsay.

Really, smiling against fate, grinning into the face of death; these things were like putting back on an old pair of well-worn shoes. He was comfortable in this situation, and he knew that fact was radiating from him in how the torturer whom had just been so eager to hurt him looked at him. The man's face was dark, for he understood now the challenge posed.

There would be no flaying, no gouging, no maiming. All of the most terrible techniques to bring a man to his knees in submission were now barred from the table. That did of course not stop his designated tormentors from trying; they began with ice water dunking and oxygen deprivation, but Ramsay weathered this well, always knowing they could not allow him to die from it.

Thinking this way was rendering the process into something less like a panicked fear of asphyxiation. It was more akin to severe discomfort; taxing but tolerable to a man like Ramsay, as he continually steeled himself against the effects of tortures he was well versed in. He knew from watching his victims what to expect, and that it was no small pain he would suffer, but he intended to make these men fail.

If only to see his father's face when they reported that he kept laughing at their efforts. The bigger man hit him often when he did this, which kept Ramsay from laughing at them too often, but it was still almost worth it to see their expressions when it became clear that he wasn't going to bend. They hung him on the rack overnight, which Ramsay had expected.

Being in such a position kept him from being able to sleep or find any sort of comfort. The average man did not know the agony that could be found in the solitude of a room when you could sit or lay down. His limbs hurt terribly where he was bound, and he knew the pain would be even greater when they untied him the next day.

They would likely start trying to starve him into compliance, he thought. They would allow him only enough water to live, and taunt him constantly with the life-giving liquid and the smell of freshly cooked meat. These things too he could brace himself against though, knowing that they could not actually kill him, there was much he could endure.

Was it all worth it just to rile his father? This thought occurred to him that night as he strained against the unending discomfort of his restraints. In the long hours of the night it was easy to allow one's mind to drift to the reasons for one's actions, and even Ramsay it turned out was capable of introspection. He answered the question to himself quickly.

Of course it was worth it. He did not dwell too long on the answer though, only allowing himself to be filled with the righteous angst that fueled the notion of his rebellion and moving his mind to other tasks, for a part of him knew that his reasoning was thin at best. Ultimately, Ramsay was enduring great suffering, just to fulfill an agenda that was ironically petty.

He did not have to wait long into the next day before Roose came back into the dark room to check on his son's progress. Ramsay waited until the Warden asked the crucial question of whether they had been successful; "So… has the eldest heir to the Bolton legacy been taught the error of his ways? I assume you have worn him down a little in all this time?"

At that moment Ramsay lifted his head from the quiet pose of rest he had been maintaining, gave his father a snide grin, and spat on the gangly man whom had been the source of most of his more recent sufferings. Roose frowned in displeasure and it was nearly worth it before both men hammered him repeatedly in the stomach with their fists.

It was difficult to maintain a cocky grin when continuously winded like that, even for Ramsay, and he found that all he could do was gasp and choke for air under the recoil of those hateful blows. His father's mild voice cut the air, sounding nearly bored with the display, as was Roose's way with words, "Careful you don't break his ribs; we don't need that kind of complication."

The Warden leveled Ramsay with that icy blue stare of his for a while longer before making a non-committal gesture at the other two, "I'll give you a few days this time; I understand that my son is stubborn, but I'm certain there is a limit to this. See if you can find it. If not, I'll have to consider alternative solutions to his continued insolence."

A shudder traveled through Ramsay by way of his spine out to the tips of his toes and fingers at the thought of what 'alternative solutions' his father might have employed against him in his efforts to cow his son. He was fairly certain Roose might be hinting at using the more terrible implements available after all…

There were screws that could be turned into the tops of his feet, which was excruciating, and while it might give Ramsay a limp for the rest of his life it wouldn't leave him with any visible scars. Also, the two men with him could drive small blades under the nails of his hands and feet. Many people didn't know it, but this sort of thing was one of the most painful tortures there were, and wouldn't leave highly visible scars either.

Perhaps his father felt that by implying these sort of terrible ordeals that Ramsay would cower and repent immediately, so he instead grit his teeth and gave the Warden the most defiant look he could manage, given that he was strapped to a cross, unable to move, and suffering from a combination of pain and weariness that would tax even the fiercest of warriors.

Roose didn't shy away from Ramsay's open rebelliousness, though, as well Ramsay would have expected, but neither did he seem to be aggravated by it. Instead he studied Ramsay as if he was observing a state he did not expect to last, only giving Ramsay a cutting remark to think on before he turned to leave, "Rail and rage as you must, boy, but you know as well as I how this ends."

He could have said nothing more profoundly insulting or instigating as those simple words, being as they lacked aggression and instead only stung because of their blatant truth. Ramsay could no more deny that he was going to lose this little game than he could deny the sun rising in the morning. Every experienced torturer came to learn that all men eventually bent in the end; it was just a matter of time.

Maybe his father's words had been a little too accurate, he thought, even as he roared obscenities at his father's back. He wasn't sure what he thought to gain in doing so; it only came naturally to lash out in that way. Perhaps some vain part of him hoped that he could incense his father badly enough that Roose would have him killed and end his suffering, but that would indeed be vain; Roose had already promised he would live, and his old man had yet to fail a promise given to Ramsay.

No, he was going to suffer for what he'd done, he'd known that from the moment that Roose had gained the upper hand back in the War Room. He was going to suffer, and in the end, he was going to lose all over again.


	3. Losing

Chapter 3: Losing

Audio: 

<https://app.box.com/s/v3b81h57iwp7df1qaxjohn74e7wlr5k0>

Ramsay gasped at the feeling of ice cold water bathing him in a torrent of muscle clenching shock that was both surprising and painful. He immediately sputtered, coughing at the water that he had inadvertently inhaled during that reactionary gasp, his body wracked with pins and needles of pain in many places as his mind resurfaced into the mortal world from the realm of dream.

He couldn't remember when it was that he had finally managed to pass out, but it had been some time after his two tormentors had finished their conversation with his father, before Roose had left. They had both just given him derisive looks and then walked away, presumably to talk about their plan of actions on dealing with him out of earshot of Ramsay.

But they had simply never returned, and the hours, if indeed they had been hours, tolled on heedless of the fact that Ramsay needed something to happen around him, if not to alleviate the toil of the incredible boredom he faced alone in that dark room then at least as a way to pull his mind away from the state of his tortured body.

His wrists had burned so very badly from holding so much of his weight for so long upon that cross, and various muscles continued ceaselessly to groan about their need to stretch, to avoid the dangers of atrophy, but he was helpless to move and so in his isolation had only these pains as company. Of course, if he had thought it bad then… now it was so very much worse.

Now the dull aches and cramps were amplified by nettling stings and terrible spasms as his body awoke and reminded him that these ailments were still unaddressed, in addition to the trauma caused to his nervous system, which had been completely unready for the pail of cold water foisted into his face. The waspish man smiled and grinned at Ramsay, the rotted teeth in his mouth giving his smile a sinister edge.

I think I'll call this one Wasp, thought Ramsay as he observed the way the other man hovered watchfully, seeming ever ready to do something more to increase Ramsay's ire. And one day, once these trials were through, since his father had decided that Ramsay would be surviving these ordeals, he would most certainly be squashing this bug of a man. Focusing all of the discomfort, shock and pain into heated loathing was easy as Ramsay scowled at the lanky torturer.

A low chuckle devoid of much mirth brought Ramsay's eyes to his other unwanted companion. The large man gave Ramsay a look that was half smirk and half frown, "You were right; he didn't much care for that at all. Good start, but you've still got work; I think you might have just made the bloke turtle up if anything."

Ramsay sneered a smile at the second torturer. He knew just what to call this lumbering, stupid pile of shit as well. In fact, the name fit so well and sounded so insulting even within his own mind that he just had to share his decision of title for the larger man, "You know, since I don't know or care to know your names, I think I'll call him Wasp and you Lar-…" Ramsay's words stopped to a blow to his face that drew blood.

The big man grabbed him by the neck, watching Ramsay's face turn red and then purple as he squeezed the former lord hard enough to make his eyes bulge, "I'm sure whatever you were going to say was quaint, but you're mistaken if you think the two of us are here to listen to you make speeches. Speak when spoken to or I'm going to keep using your head to relieve my stress."

When the massive hand released its hold on his throat Ramsay again found himself choking, reeling with the effects of asphyxiation. Just before being let go Ramsay's vision had begun to go dark and he had been certain that he was going to die right then, anticlimactically choked to death by his torturer over a minor insult.

As he took in pained breathes through a windpipe that felt bruised Ramsay didn't work up the courage to test the man's threat. Instead he quietly glared daggers at him, telling him with his eyes how much he hated him, how dead that fat buffoon was going to be once Ramsay was in a position to do anything about all of this.

Wasp didn't seem at all concerned over the little display; in fact he looked rather amused that Ramsay had been cuffed and strangled a little. "Well, now that you can see that my friend here isn't interested in being called names, I believe you should also take into account that we aren't children, and that you are an adult facing punishment for very serious crimes."

Ramsay turned his baleful gaze back to the longer haired jailor, his mouth working as he ground his teeth together in a quiet fury. Wasp went on, "Good; you can learn. That is going to be an important trait for you in the days to come. We aren't certain when your father will return, but we both fully intend to have results this time."

The Bolton bastard smiled wickedly at his tormentor, knowing that the bloody grin had to be an unsettling visage, but his smile waned when he realized that Wasp and his associate were not angered by his continued defiance, nor even slightly put off. Instead, Wasp just quirked an eyebrow ever so slightly as he studied Ramsay's face.

"I believe we should have become better acquainted with you before we got started on this little adventure, young master. I heard the stories about you, of course, we all have, but I had assumed that when faced with some real discomfort you would break like every other soft little lord I've had the pleasure of hurting."

He reached out casually, gripping Ramsay by the hair as he stepped a little closer, the grip he maintained on the roots of Ramsay's scalp intensifying slower until it began to become painful, causing Ramsay's head to tilt a little to the side as the torturer came to within a few inches of his face, "But you aren't a soft little lord, are you? You imagine yourself the hardened master."

Wasp smiled again, a cruel sight to behold, and Ramsay blanched at the smell of the foul man's breath at such close proximity, "If we want to hurt this one we're going to need to get inside his skull."

The large one's brow knitted at the statement, "Aye, but Lord Roose said…"

"Not literally you dumb fuck." Wasp shook his head in mild irritation, "No, I mean we need to find out what scares him."

"Nothing," Ramsay said quickly.

The lank-haired torturer rolled his eyes, "How dull. Don't be dull. You've done plenty of this kind of work yourself, haven't you? Didn't always do it because you had to, either, am I right?" He let off another malignant smile, "We're always best at what we enjoy, aren't we?

The thin man reached up, running his hand almost affectionately along Ramsay's face, brushing the back of his hand along the bruise recently created by his larger accomplice, "Today I just want to talk a little, but as you can see, this isn't a conversation that you get to steer." He moved his hand back to Ramsay's hair, patting him as if he was a well-loved dog, "You just answer when I speak. Simple."

Ramsay grimaced irritably, showing Wasp a bit of his teeth and the blood that still coated them in the process. He hoped that the gesture and the expression on his face would be enough to convey the necessary innuendo implying that the wispy-haired man go fuck himself. Wasp was insane if he thought that Ramsay was going to tell him anything useful.

Still, the thin man rattled out questions, one after the other, "Where were you born? Where did you grow up? Who was your mother?" Ceaselessly he asked, and seeing no point in resisting the allure of basic conversation, because at least it was something to keep his mind occupied, Ramsay answered the man's inane questions.

Sometimes when Ramsay answered questions about his mother though Wasp would cock his head a bit or smile a little differently, which bothered Ramsay. After all, the Bolton bastard was putting in a great deal of effort at concealing any change of inflection in his own speech when he answered questions about that sensitive topic.

Ramsay was a masterful liar, and had an incredible poker face, yet this scrawny villain seemed able to perceive somehow that his past was a sore point for Ramsay, and therefore lingered constantly on questions of his bitter childhood. Ramsay tried to make a game of it, telling Wasp of the violent games he and Reek would play.

He left out no detail, even embellishing the cruelty of those acts a bit, hoping that he would make the other man uncomfortable, but while the fat one shifted a bit at the worst of it, the thin one only smiled and waited for the next bit of detail. If anything, these stories only seemed to make Wasp want to hear even more of his past, making Ramsay exasperated with the futility of it.

It had occurred to Ramsay he was being reckless as he relayed the sordid, bloody tales of chasing down young girls for sport, of how he would watch as Reek raped the poor women before drawing a blade across their throats, of how sometimes the older man would invite Ramsay to play with them, both before and after they were dead.

Such crimes were most definitely serious ones, in fact almost any one of them punishable by death, but Ramsay was already being reciprocated for treason against his father and attempted patricide… what was the point of worrying about multiple death sentences when you could only die once? Maybe Wasp would relate these things to Roose…

Maybe Roose would change his mind and have him killed? For some reason Ramsay highly doubted this; if Roose was going to kill him he would have done so for the sins against his own person. His father was far less likely to care about Ramsay's crimes against strangers from the past. Still, his heart raced a bit at the thought, for Ramsay still wasn't sure if he was ready yet to die.

The worry didn't last within his heart though, as Ramsay became more and more clear that Wasp had other plans for what he learned of Ramsay than simply betraying his misdeeds to his father. While the lank-haired torturer often jabbed at Ramsay's past as he spoke on it, he didn't really seem to be following the lines that Ramsay himself would have taken.

For one thing, Wasp veered away from his mother after a while, which Ramsay found both a relief because she still remained a weak spot within his heart, but also disconcerting, because Ramsay was all but sure that Wasp had picked up on his vulnerability concerning her. Likewise, Wasp intensely questioned him concerning Reek, but then shifted away as if the topic now bored him.

Much time passed this way, Ramsay wondering what the thin man was getting at, in fact, he wondered if Wasp actually knew what he was doing. Perhaps the waif of a man was just grandstanding that he actually knew how to interrogate someone, and was in fact just wasting a great deal of time. Ramsay became almost certain that this was the case as Wasp questioned him about his brother Domeric.

Domeric had been the brother that Ramsay had slain by poisoning, and at first Ramsay became wary of the questions given, but he relaxed again as once more Wasp's interests ambled away from the exciting bits. He only asked about Domeric's death in passing and then began fielding Ramsay's opinion of the former heir, before asking about Roose's former wife Bethany.

Ramsay found this pointless exercise almost laughable, and in fact he was just about to accept whatever punching the meathead next to Wasp would deal out in order to mock the little man when Wasp's smile suddenly changed and his sharp eyes told Ramsay there was something the Bolton bastard was missing, "You know, it has occurred to me that I've allowed my love for my own voice to get the best of me."

The oldest Bolton son's mouth slowly closed from the comment he had been about to make, instead opening again in question, "Are you trying to tell me that you already learned what you want?"

A laugh peeled out of him as the tow-headed man nodded, "Indeed. I deduced some time ago what your greatest weakness was. I didn't really need to know about your troubles concerning 'mommy never loved me' or 'my best friend smelled real bad'."

This caused Ramsay to fidget a bit within his restraints, as the torturer leaned in, putting his mouth next to Ramsay's ear and whispering conspiratorially, "You are a maniac and a sadist like me, but the biggest difference between us that also happens to be your greatest flaw…"

He leaned back, touching the tip of his finger to Ramsay's nose in a mocking fashion that earned him a glare from the latter, "…is that your head is bigger than this keep. You think you shit miracles, boy."

Ramsay raised an eyebrow at that, cocking a half-smile at the man, "Oh I get it; the big bad reason you want to hurt me so badly from the get go. You're jealous. You see your betters walking about with real power while you have to do what your told, and you relish the thought that you occasionally get to hurt a lord, don't you?"

Wasp barked out a high-pitched cackle of a laugh suddenly and Ramsay's theory faltered, his next words dying on his lips. The spindly torturer kept up that same smile he had been holding the entire time as he gestured to his much larger companion, "Loose him. Watch yourself, I hear he's a fighter."

Confusion touched Ramsay's features as the other torturer did as he was asked, moving to untie Ramsay's binds and remove him from the rack.

Fire shot through every fiber of Ramsay's being as pain unlike any he had felt wracked him from the bruised and swollen areas of his hands and feet where he had been trussed to the rack. His feet hurt terribly but his hands had taken the brunt of the damage. Tears came to his eyes as he choked on stifling a cry of shock and agony.

His tormentor only laughed as the fat one hauled him bodily from the contraption, "You'll be sore for a good while for sleeping on that, but you know how that goes, don't you?" He then directed the large torturer, "Put him over there, laying him down upon his stomach."

With shambling gait the robust jailor brought Ramsay to a surface he knew well; this had been the very furniture that he had laid Theon upon when he had played that little prank on the Greyjoy that had ended with the man losing his genitals. Normally he would have regarded it fondly with a wave of pleasant nostalgia, but for now it only caused foreboding, as he could not know what Wasp was up to.

That changed quickly enough, as the gangly man circled him, unbuckling the belt around his own waist, "Hold him down nice and tight, but I'm okay if he squirms a little; only makes it that much more fun."

Ramsay's eyes widened and he strained against the solid grip of the portly torturer, letting out a guttural roar of surprise, fury, and fear, "No! Get… get away from me!"

With an unyielding strength that lent Ramsay the impression that he was fighting against a stone wall, the bigger man slowly shoved Ramsay down to lay upon his stomach, and then pinned him there so that he could not rise. Desperation welled up in Ramsay with every panicked breath he took and he released another animal cry of terror as Wasp approached him from behind.

The slender man had pulled out his member now, which seemed disproportionately large to his frame, and as Ramsay struggled to squirm away in vain, he watched over his own shoulder as the torturer placed his cock along the groove of Ramsay's clenched buttocks, "You just need someone to pull you down a peg or two, and I know exactly how I'm going to do that."

It wasn't the cleverest or most thought out response. In fact, Ramsay's rebuttal to the cruel man's words was boringly normal in the circumstance he found himself in, very much the same sort of thing he had heard from quite a few of his own victims. Ramsay had often wondered why everyone responded so dully, but now he had insight into his own muttered, "No… no… stop!"

He struggled to kick at the offending rapist, tried to squirm in such as fashion so as to at least misalign the invading flesh, so as to delay this seemingly inevitable nightmare a little longer, but the big one held him securely, and the thin one knew how to rape a person, standing closely to Ramsay so as to make his attempted kicks a futile waste of energy.

With trained alacrity the gangly man managed to penetrate Ramsay also, no matter that he squirmed and bucked like a frantic bull, causing Ramsay to shriek out in a primal exclamation of fury and indignation to the humiliating affront. From there things only grew more savage, as the tall, thin man gripped Ramsay's hips with strong hands and proceeded to do as he liked with his prisoner.

The only thing that Ramsay managed to blurt out before he fell back into a cacophony of grunts and hisses at the stinging pain of the forced entry was to make a threat that felt weak in his own ears and was summarily ignored by his torturers, "M… My father will skin you both! Your hides shall decorate my walls for this!"

Only laughter greeted his wails of protest, increasing in resonance when he tried to intimidate those who had the upper hand. The fatter torturer glared down at him with a grin that was sparse on real humor, seeming to enjoy that they had finally gotten some real reaction out of the Bolton bastard, "You be sure to tell Daddy all about how we gave it to you good then, aye?"

A strangled cry was all that Ramsay volunteered to that comment, for he knew as well as they that he would rather die than tell his father or anyone else living of the awful things being done to him. His eyes bulged, his face red with a mix or shame, pain, and impotent rage for which he could not even find a means of expression as he huffed against the continued prodding.

It continued for what seemed an eternity this way, the white hot pain of entry causing Ramsay to twist and writhe like a worm upon a hook, until suddenly he felt a shift in the motions of the other man, a sense of urgency and savage immediacy. Ramsay's eyes widened as he realized the implication of the event, "No! Nooooo!"

He wrenched and he bucked, throwing himself against his tormentors as hard as he could despite how weary the constant struggle against the larger, stronger man had left him, hoping to get free before the final act of desecration, or at least to forestall the action by distracting Wasp. His attempts were in vain, though, as Wasp only seemed to enjoy his last desperate plea.

If anything, the sadistic man's face beamed with renewed pleasure at seeing the agony that his impending climax was yielding, expediting the very end that Ramsay sought to deny, as he loosed himself with a grunt that was matched by a bitter cry from Ramsay, whom was pressed down hard during the forceful orgasm.

He was held down that way for a few moments, forced to wallow in the awful stench of the deed, moaning miserably of his hatred towards these two men, telling them in no uncertain terms how dead they were for daring to go this far. Apparently, doing so only made things worse for him, as Wasp pulled back to quip, "You hear that? Looks like our little push wasn't enough. Guess we'll have to give him more."

The two men exchanged positions, Wasp moving up to grab ahold or Ramsay's upper torso, as the other, larger man grabbed his lower torso. Ramsay's expression had been set into a sort of subdued misery, as the shock of the prior activities had left him in a helpless state of denial in which he could not cope with the reality he had found himself in.

But now as the second offender untied the drawstring that held up his homespun trousers as his other hand gripped Ramsay's leg, his portly form growing closer, Ramsay snapped out of the daze he had been in, his eyes widening once more as he shouted, "S-stop! No…" He began anew to jump and writhe, though this time he started far more exhausted.

In only moments Ramsay was drained of what energy he could muster despite the way his heart hammered within his chest. He felt that his emotion alone should give him the strength to wrest himself free of these men, but the sad fact of the matter was that he was helpless to resist these two men, and the second rapist entered him the same as the first.

It went this way for what felt to Ramsay like an age all said and told, though in reality the entire ordeal consisted of a smaller time frame than the usual allotment that it would take Ramsay himself to rape one of the village girls before cutting her throat or letting his dogs have their feast. He didn't even know it, but these men, cruel as they were, still did not drag out those moments as he had.

Though it did not matter in the bigger picture, as even a lesser cruelty as this one was still severe enough the finally pierce the veneer of his exaggerated ego that had protected Ramsay from being truly affected by the efforts of his two torturers. Real fear showed in his eyes, and real agony exuded from his frame despite his best efforts to hide or disguise it.

From a professional torturer like Wasp, Ramsay knew he might as well advertise his own state of weakness for how much those eager green eyes of his took in. The thin man wore a silly grin that spoke of amusement and victory as he watched what his companion did to Ramsay, and even more so in how Ramsay reacted to what the portly rapist did to him.

"Still think we can't hurt you? Daddy is going to be so happy to see you unscarred, though you might walk a little funny by the time we're through…" He drew close to Ramsay, taunting him face to face even as Ramsay huffed against what the other man was still doing to him, "…so shall I tell the Lord Bolton what it took to pull you down or are you going to give me a fucking break?"

Ramsay turned his head to the side, looking away from Wasp as tears of unreconciled rage and boundless humiliation stung at his eyes. He was loathe to lose, and even less to this insect of a man, but even more than that he could not afford for his father or anyone else to ever know what these two men did to him that night.

When Roose Bolton arrived within the dark room scant hours afterward, the Warden's face spoke of his distrust that the news which had brought him there was correct. Clearly he expected his son to be playing some sort of game with his torturers, and in fact Roose was already considering what sort of punishment he would meet out for the waste of his time.

What he was certainly not expecting was a Ramsay whom refused to look him in the eye as he entered, the first sign that something was amiss. Still half-convinced that perhaps his son was putting on a very convincing act, Roose glanced over to the man that Ramsay had dubbed 'Wasp', "He is ready to apologize, then?"

Wasp only nodded to the Warden briefly before leveling his intense green eyes on Ramsay, a smirk on his face that reminded Roose of the boy in question, which was an unsettling notion. For the first time a seed of doubt implanted itself in the Warden as to whether entrusting Ramsay to men known for cruelty was the best cure for the same affliction.

Those thoughts dissipated immediately though as Roose heard the words he had been waiting so very long to hear from his son's lips, "I-I'm sorry, father."

They didn't sound too particularly genuine, but they were there. Just saying them must have been anathema to Ramsay's ego. Roose walked over, taking his son's face in one gloved hand.

He carefully inspected Ramsay's face then, before stepping back and allowing his eyes to roam over the rest of his son's countenance and form, "He seems uninjured. I know I did not outline the importance of the detail, but I do assume you know he was not to be drugged for this meeting?"

The fat one shook his head, responding in his deep and gravelly voice, "No, milord, we wouldn't cheat you of this that way. He speaks of his own accord."

Wasp spoke up again, his own sharp voice demanding, "Go on, young lord; tell your father just how much you have learned."

Roose raised an eyebrow at what was obviously an intentional jab at Ramsay's faltering id, something that Roose knew was a testy matter, as Ramsay's recklessness seemed capable of displacing all reason in matters of pride. Yet still the Bolton bastard maintained the visage of a man broken. His voice dripped of malice towards his torturers, but still he said the words.

"I'm very sorry… father. I… have learned that I am a sinner who needs your forgiveness. Please… forgive me." He failed to make eye contact, and Roose knew this was lip service, but still this was improvement and he knew it.

For the first time in a very long while, Roose allowed the faintest glimmer of a pleased smile grace his lips, even if only for the briefest of moments, "Well done. I must now know, exactly what did you do to achieve such unexpected results in such a short period of time?"

The wiry torturer smiled widely and cruelly at Ramsay, seeming to enjoy the way that the question made the Bolton bastard squirm within his restraints, "It turned out that pain isn't as motivating to this one as taking jabs at his ego, milord. Would you like to know the specifics?


	4. Regrets

Audio link: 

<https://app.box.com/s/1gm2l682a9pi5dwptu3p1ix7eexp38i5>

Chapter 4: Regrets

Roose nodded, "I did use the word 'exactly'. Quit your grandstanding and tell me what you did already."

Ramsay turned his red-faced visage away, so that his father might not spy the humiliation therein, as Wasp spoke enthusiastically, "Well, milord, he was acting like a truly spoiled, ungrateful, belligerent brat so we decided to spank him."

The Warden raised an eyebrow, "You spanked him?"

Wasp shrank just a bit in his excitement. After all, it was a risky business that he ventured into, punishing the son of his lord. He had to be always certain that Roose did not take what he did to Ramsay as an offense against the House.

Cautiously, Wasp nodded, "…Yes. I gave him a thorough talking to and discovered that his past was chock full of bad parenting, most likely the fault of that cunt mother of his…"

Annoyance was creeping into Roose's face despite Wasp's attempt to heap all of the negligence solely on Ramsay's mother, so he cleared his throat, trying to sound as professional as possible.

"Well… one thing led to another and we decided to give him a punishment that smacked a little more of the corporal type, to sort of bring him back to his roots… give him a do over so to speak." Wasp smiled to see Ramsay let out a breath of relief; Wasp had glossed over the things that the two of them had done to him. Ramsay had wondered for a moment there if Wasp was going to admit to raping him.

Though he still recoiled at the mention about the spanking. He had been doing his very best to forget entirely about the entire humiliating experience. It had been when Wasp had been having his second go at Ramsay, proving that you couldn't judge a man's stamina just by looking at him. Ramsay had feebly kicked at him some more when he had been lining up for another round of defilement.

Taking pretend umbrage, Wasp had looked at Ramsay with an expression of mock surprise, "Oh, look at all of that fight left in the little rascal. I suppose all this hasn't been enough to put the fellow in his right mind… what do you suppose we should do my friend?"

The bigger man had laughed at what Wasp had considered 'fight', joining in mocking the helpless prisoner, "Aye, maybe you should spank the brat."

To the surprise of both his companion and Ramsay, Wasp had acted on what had clearly been a suggestion made in jest, lifting Ramsay up from the surface upon which he currently lay to line him up for the hardest upward swing he could manage, creating a sharp noise and a sharper sting that had caused Ramsay to buck in surprise, his eyes wide at the unexpected turn of events.

Worse yet, he continued the assault, flipping Ramsay onto his stomach again as he had been the first time Wasp had raped him, and rapidly swatting his naked, vulnerable buttocks as Ramsay scrambled violently and futilely against the grip of his other attacker. He had hissed at how much the blatant act of disrespect hurt him, both physically and otherwise. As a man who had never received such punishment, he had been astonished at the scope of discomfort involved.

But there it was, a sting so profound that it had brought tears to his eyes. In fact, the mere memory of the sensation was enough to make Ramsay shift uncomfortably in the present day. That vicious man had pummeled his bottom, both while fucking him and afterwards, until Ramsay had lost track of how long he had writhed in that grip of pain and despair.

The larger man had been as shocked as Ramsay by the turn of events at first, but it didn't take long before his deep voice bellowed out in laughter in his amusement of the scenario. Once Wasp had reddened Ramsay's ass to a fiery red splotch of meshed handprints, the fat one had started his own round of smacking Ramsay, more than happy to see that there were now two things they could do to make him squirm.

After this went on to the point that Ramsay's muted gasps, stifled grunts and hisses of pain had transformed into subdued whimpers of acknowledgement of yet another stinging blow, The lanky torturer had leaned forward and grabbed ahold of his face with both hands, framing Ramsay's countenance as he smiled wickedly into it, "Let's make a deal."

Ramsay had wanted to spit on him. He had wanted to summon whatever strength he might yet marshal and fight, but what he wanted and what he was capable of were two different things. His body was spent with wrestling against impossible odds against the superior weight, leverage and muscle of his rapists, and his mind was likewise tired of resisting. Defeat wasn't a blaze of glory at all, he had thought; it was the final dim flicker of a fire extinguished.

In a parched voice that grated against his own ears as tired, weak and resigned, he had whispered, "What do you want?"

So now here he stood, affixed to the cross that was the staple of the House Bolton, though upright unlike the sigil of their family, since an upside-down man complicated conversation.

Here he was, his face turned to the side because he could not bear to view his father gazing at the son who had given in to such a petty punishment. He only wished that he could cover his ears, so that he could not hear Wasp's words, as the thin torturer relayed how he had punished Ramsay into accepting his terms of surrender. At least, the part that didn't include their violations of his rectum.

Apology was all it would take, he had said. Just say the words, you don't even have to mean them. Say the words and the humiliation can stop. No more being slapped like some naughty child whom had failed to show respect to his elders. No more debasement in the ultimate act of dominance by slovenly men of low birth.

So many times Ramsay had repeated that to himself now. Say the words. Just say the words and it will all go away. The worst part of the fantasy was that he should have known what Wasp was really selling him; he had done so to others often, had he not? But it wasn't going away, and it wasn't going to go away.

False hope had always been one of his favorite torture tools. Inflicting physical pain was fun of course, but nothing swelled him with sadistic glee more than watching a true trauma of the heart, to watch a man or woman give up and crumple from the inside. With some people, you could rend their bodies and only get so far, so it had always been a joy to see someone truly break.

As he did now. The thought stung like yet another barb to go along with all the nettling stings that Wasp had inflicted upon his pride. He found that he had named the man more appropriately than he could ever have accounted for. Even as his mind traced the edges of despair as one traces the map of a land they were starting to become acquainted with, the foul man went on.

He explained to Ramsay's father just how he had punished him in the most humiliating terms, "He was a bit bratty at first, milord, but we found that he straightened out as any spoiled boy would when properly shown the rod." Ramsay was forced to listen to this and more such obvious puns that suggested the other things they had done to him, without being direct enough to truly clue in Roose.

Ramsay of course knew what he was actually saying in half of those double meanings, and though he tried not to, he often caught the malicious gap-toothed smiles that Wasp menacingly shot him when he made some of those little quips. Ramsay promised himself that he was going to torture this man as he had never tortured a man. Wasp would be his crowning achievement in pain.

Roose Bolton frowned, shaking his head ever so slightly. "I'm going to have to see this for myself if I'm going to believe it. Are you certain that you did not drug him?"

The Warden turned to give Wasp a baleful glare that would have made the most hardened of war veterans feel squeamish, "You would be ill advised to lie to your Lord to fulfil your deadline."

Wasp held both hands up palms forward in a universal sign of surrender and peace, "No, milord, I wouldn't dream of it, neither of us would." He gulped, clearly nervous despite being innocent of the accusation that was being levied against him, "I would happily show you exactly what sort of man your son is when given the right sort of persuasion."

That was more than Ramsay could handle; after everything that he had just said and done for his torturers, they had lied to him after all, they had done what he should have known they would do, "No! You said we were done, you said we were done!" He knew that his manic fight against the large rotund man that came was foolish and desperate.

He knew he had nothing to gain by flailing and screaming as his bonds were undone and he was carried by the two of them back to the usual place that he had come to dread so much. But still he fought, still he cried out at the top of his lungs like a wild man as they shoved him into position over the larger man's lap.

How childlike and tantrum-like the whole affair must have seemed to his father, as he went on railing against the inevitable, as the fat man's meaty hands first pulled down the bit of cloth that protected him from his fate and then began to lay themselves upon his arches with great force and merciless agenda. They wanted him to break in front of his father, as he had done for them.

Yet despite knowing this to be the case, he found himself playing into the role set out for him like a marionette dancing upon the Wasp's strings. He felt degraded, humiliated and righteously betrayed, though a voice in his own mind kept right on berating his own person for how stupidly he had walked into this trap.

He resisted with every last shred of what still remained of his tattered pride, which he discovered he had managed to retain some amount of, but all that this did was make his suffering take a great deal of time to culminate into the ultimate failure of which Wasp and his companion pushed him, which they all knew was inevitable.

Shouting didn't dull the pain, and closing his eyes tightly didn't blind his mind's eye to what befell him, to what his father Roose must see laid out before him. For the Warden's part, he just stood there with his arms fold before him, calmly purveying the scene of Ramsay's most humiliating debut. Ramsay wished with every fiber of his being that Roose would end it, that he would call them off.

But why would Roose Bolton defend him now, after he had attempted patricide, after he had spat at his father's attempts to get him to see reason. Roose had given him every opportunity along the way, he realized, had given him more chances than he deserved to turn around and apologize early, to resolve this before Wasp and his heavy-handed friend had become so involved.

His pride could not have allowed that before though, just as it would not allow him rest now, as he squirmed and bucked within that giant's grip, shouting bloody murder over such a trite punishment, knowing full well that he could give in at any time and end it all, if only he would truly submit in front of his father.

This knowledge in itself was a curse that pushed him ever closer to that final precipice, and eventually, his ass heated with the pain administered and his throat raw from yelling profanities and primal shouts of helpless rage, finally his body lay more or less still within the confines of his handler, as he slumped in exhausted defeat.

His body only occasionally jumped to the continued strapping he received as his wavering voice rang out the notes of his resigned decision to relent, if only to stop the shaming pressure that he knew would otherwise extend well past the boundaries of what his tortured body could handle, "E-enough! P-please, please I'll do anything, just stop, I'll do anything…!"

Roose nodded at this as he watched Ramsay renew his squirming on the realization that his begging wasn't causing his tormentor to cease hitting him with the same fervor that he had begun the spanking with, "This is acceptable. Have some servants help you if needed, but get him cleaned up and bring him to see me unbound."

Wasp blinked, clearly surprised by the order, "Uh… you want us to let him go, milord?"

The Warden gave him a curt nod in response, "Yes, have him bathed and shaved and wearing something presentable. The next time I lay eyes on him I want him to represent a respectful heir in every facet possible."

Apparently Roose did not feel any more elaboration was necessary, and had seen what he had come to see, for he turned on his heel then and strode from the room purposefully to whatever other task now dominated him mind. Ramsay held his breath at the exit, since the fat one had stopped hitting him at Roose's words, but now Ramsay was uncertain if he might resume.

Clearly his fears were unfounded, though, as he was suddenly levered up by the big hands that so roughly embraced him, and hauled over to where Wasp stood, "So we bathe him?"

Wasp's face screwed up at the thought, "Nah, he said we can have the proper servants do it."

The faintest shadow of worry crossed the larger torturer's face, "You don't think they'll notice what we did, do you?"

His shorter companion waved a hand dismissively at the notion suggested, "No way; you can't tell a man's been fucked in the bum just by looking at him…" He paused as he stared at Ramsay, whom had flinched at the thought, "Though with you I don't know; you just look like a man who likes to take it in the ass, don't you?"

Ramsay only looked away, unable to face the wicked, twisted smile or the malicious gaze anymore. He had summoned so much rage against Wasp and his dim-witted ally for so long now as a shield against the pain they inflicted upon him, but now his heart hammered against his ribs and all he could feel was fear.

When had he become so cowed? This was all he could ponder internally even as his outer self continued to betray him by simpering and pandering to Wasp's demands and insults. He was pushed towards a wash tub that was hastily prepared with water that hadn't been fully warmed by the servants, meaning that it would be freezing cold by the time he was bathed.

No one lent him aid in washing, despite the fact that his hands trembled so hard that he could barely keep his grip on the soap or the sponge, both of which constantly slipped from his grasp to land in the water he sat in with a muffled splash. This little dance continued again and again, but none of the servants present moved a muscle, just watching his embarrassing display play out.

He wished he could more hurriedly wash himself, but not only would that only hasten his dropping of the soap, but the same thing that caused his trembling caused his muscles to shake and shudder, making movements erratic, slow and difficult. Atrophy was a minor issue at this point, but the damage done to his wrists from extended stays in the rack had taken their toll.

Ramsay turned his hands over as he sat there hunched nakedly within that wooden basin, his eyes poring over the bruised and reddened appendages that had once been supple, slender wrists. They reminded him of badly bruised apples now, with their striation of red, blue and black. He knew they would heal, but it would be some time before he could wield a bow again.

A burly voice from behind him caused him to jump, "That's enough checking your nails, princess. Get done and get out so we can all get back to our lives."

The eldest heir of House Bolton grimaced but didn't scowl at the fat torturer as he might have done a day or two prior, doing his best to return to the work at hand.

Cold air whipped through the room, giving him a bit of a chill, and it was difficult even in his condition to miss how very cold the water he was sitting in had become. With this in mind, Ramsay decided that he was going to have to call himself clean enough and exit the bath before he ended up freezing to death in what would be an extremely anticlimactic death.

Servants handed some clothing to Wasp that Ramsay recognized as being from the wardrobe back in his own room within Winterfell , and the wiry man threw the garments at Ramsay, whom only managed to catch some of the articles, his tired, sore hands bumbling the others to the floor, "Dress yourself. Daddy wants you presentable."

A few minutes later Ramsay found himself escorted to his father's study, a room that had once served as the reading room for the Maester of the previous family to own the keep. That man had been murdered though, and Roose's own Maester had claimed little use for the space, as most of the books therein did not pertain to his own particular rings of study.

Roose observed his entrance and gestured to a piece of furniture far too plush and comfortable to match the rather conservative wooden tables and chairs that the Starks had employed. Ramsay recognized it as an item imported from the Dread Fort. His eyes flicked from the couch to Roose, his face heating a little.

Was the Warden of the North suggesting that he sit on this soft chair because of what Roose had witnessed Wasp and his muscle-headed friend do to him? Ramsay shook the thought from his mind, moving to sit quietly. Either way, he would sit and say not a word about it, so that the idea might drift away like a bad wind.

Bad thoughts were like farts, his old friend Reek had often said; sometimes they went away just by ignoring them long enough. If no one in the room acknowledges the smell, it might as well not have happened. This was a terrible analogy, of course. His friend Reek had likely only created such a whimsical idea to justify his own notorious odor, but the comment had stuck.

Normally, such a thought would have brought a whimsical smile to his face at the thought of sad, bumbling, pathetic old Reek, but now every time he conjured thought of Reek the old friend just became part of the bad thoughts. A pang of something old and terrible would shoot through him and he'd spend a lot of time stamping it down.

After all, it was hard to tell yourself that you never cared for someone when you missed them. Reek had helped him escape something similar before the boy and the twisted psychopath had met, hadn't he? Ramsay's brow furrowed in thought. What had it been that he had lost; why had he been hurting then? A cleared throat brought Ramsay from his self-reflection as Roose moved closer, looking him over.

"I distinctly remember telling those two oafs to have you shaved. Normally I would punish such carelessness, but I suppose I'll let it slide considering the near genius they have displayed in getting through to you…" Roose paused, his eyes narrowing as his discerning gaze slid over Ramsay's countenance, "…You aren't planning on giving me any more trouble, are you?"

For the first time Ramsay noticed that the men whom had brought him, Wasp and his large companion, had not followed them in, and in fact must have left entirely, leaving Ramsay in the company of his father alone. He blinked, wondering if they were simply that confidant in their breaking of him, but almost immediately after realizing that Roose must have commanded this to be so.

He looked to his father, seeing that Roose was guarded as he had ever been. Roose had lowered his defenses to Ramsay only once in all of the time that the two had known each other ever since Ramsay had taken up residence at the Dread Fort during his youth, and Ramsay had attempted to murder him at that time.

The Warden would perhaps never again lower his guard to Ramsay again, and by commanding that their meeting take place alone he clearly didn't fear Ramsay in the slightest now that said guard was up. Ramsay had to admit that his father was a formidable warrior, even at his age, and Roose knew as well as he that as dirty as Ramsay might fight, Roose would be even more brutal.

Or perhaps that is just what father wants me to think, Ramsay thought to himself. The Lord of the Dread Fort had a reputation and Ramsay was aware that Roose did his part to fan the flames of that reputation. But where a reputation ended and a man began was always very difficult to discern before things reached a point of no return.

Ramsay had always been unwilling to call what might be a carefully constructed bluff, and even when he had made his move it had been underhanded using the element of surprise. He winced at the thought; Roose had bested him quickly in that attempt, and Ramsay's memory still stung with the feeling that had raced through him when he had failed to meet his father's challenge out of fear back in the War Room.

"You're quiet." Roose said at last, "It's not like you to be so introspective." He rose and paced the room, which for some reason put Ramsay on edge, causing his nerves to dance in time with Roose's booted footfalls on the rugs and cold stone floor of the room, "Not that I'm complaining. I think that bothering to think before you speak is a skill you've been lacking too long."

His son's face shifted at the jawline as he ground his teeth, his eyes shooting downward in shame at the insult. Roose waved a hand through the air, as if the matter they spoke on was too trivial to give more than a gesture to finish, "I brought you here so we can decide how to move forward. Your stunt with Harold outed another ally, and our problems have not vanished."

The bastard of House Bolton blinked, "You mean, you're not… you're not going to punish me?" Ramsay was incredulous of the entire situation; Lord Roose Bolton of the Dread Fort did not forgive, and he most certainly did not grant mercy.

Roose narrowed his gaze at Ramsay, "Do you not feel that you have suffered? I could send you back down…"

"No!" Ramsay hated how despaired, how desperate his own voice was as it rang out through the small room, and he knew well that his fear must be clearly painted upon his face for Roose to see. He quickly collected himself, looking away in humiliation at the outburst, especially since his father was likely still under the impression that it had only taken a spanking to subdue him.

"I believe the expression is to not look a gift horse in the mouth, son." His baleful glare remained on Ramsay for a while longer, which kept Ramsay's own gaze pinned to the floor in a combination of fear and shame. Something Roose had said in that sentence rang out to him, though. Even now after everything, his heart still reacted when Roose called him 'son'.

Finally the Warden picked up on the conversation that he had originally been instigating before Ramsay's question, much to his son's relief, "My spies report that tensions with the other Great Houses grow daily, and while the plan of doing nothing and hoping that all of this goes away might have worked previously due to the considerable garrison we boast, I have reason to believe that has changed."

Ramsay knew that his father had been playing that angle during his bid for allies before. Roose had sought ways to solidify himself more permanently for the uncertain future to come by marrying Ramsay to the very House he had betrayed, but this had only meant to be reinforcements to the defenses they already had in place.

He stammered, "W-we have a larger army than many of the other Houses combined. They would have to rouse themselves into new alliances just to stand as a threat…"

His father finished the thought for him, nodding his assent to Ramsay's reasoning, "…and such alliances are incredibly rare. Many Houses compete for the same resources and some of them are even known to be actively engaged in blood feuds that have lasted for generations. Only the Starks have ever united so many of them in common cause not only once but twice in the last few decades."

Ramsay could see Roose's point in his answer even before he actually stated it as Roose went on, "The Starks. The House we betrayed. Whose ancestral home we inhabit. Ned Stark roused the North to war against the Mad King, whose armies were far larger than ours. Rob Stark spurred the North against the Lannisters, whose armies were far larger than ours."

"You're afraid that Jon Snow will have the North attack us."

A hint of a smile graced Roose's grim features for all of a moment, and Ramsay felt his stomach churn at the thought that his father might have actually been proud of him for a moment there. It was fleeting, but even such a tiny display of emotion was unusual for the Lord of the Dread Fort. What had come over Roose Bolton to make him start showing Ramsay such things?

"Exactly. I am hearing reports that Jon has carved quite the reputation for himself out there in the ice, and proven himself every bit the leader that his father and brother were." His solemn expression locked Ramsay within the gaze of his icy blue eyes, "He might not be a Stark by name, but he already commands a respected position within the Night's Watch…"

"…and the North remembers." Ramsay finished glumly.

Roose shook his head, "Well, yes, but that's not where I was going with that. I'm trying to point out that we aren't the hurdle that Rob and Ned Stark had to argue for; we aren't commanding vast armies hundreds of miles away. We have wronged them, and we are right here in the midst of their lands. If they are willing to march against greater odds, our army does not make us safe from attack."

His son nodded, "So we need to shore up our defenses. Maybe pull in supplies needed to withstand an extended siege…"

The Warden sighed at him, leaning back to rub at his beard, and Ramsay got the distinct impression that his statement had in some way failed his father, leaving Ramsay frowning.

"No. If you'll recall, part of the reason why we have garnered so much hatred is because you have traveled out using my stolen position as Warden of the North like a cudgel, hurting and killing the small folk that didn't comply… they tend to remember that. You're as likely to find armed resistance to such forays as anything else if you tried that stunt now."

Ramsay was at a loss for words as he wracked his brain, trying to see what exactly it was Roose was getting at, "Well, if we can't get allies, and we can't hold Winterfell, what are we going to do? I know you father; you wouldn't have asked me for ideas if you didn't already have one of your own."

Roose smiled more widely this time, in what was genuine mirth as opposed to calculated political teeth-showing. It was a strange and alien thing on his father's face, and Ramsay found it disconcerting, "You already gave me the idea previously, Ramsay, when you moronically suggested that you assassinate the Commander of the Night's Watch. We are going to the Wall."


	5. Raging Disappointment

Audio chapter:

<https://app.box.com/s/asfyc08ixq2ph3ouf66uyhw4vy2kdprv>

Chapter 5: Raging Disappointment

Chapter 5: Raging Disappointment

Ramsay lay awake much of that night, taking in the feeling of being back within the confines of his room, the soft goose-feather mattress beneath him almost strange after spending so much time hanging upon the rack. In an odd conundrum, he was now finally in a position to sleep more comfortably than he had in days, and the fact was keeping him awake.

That and his thoughts of his father's plans. Roose's latest change in tactics was one he never would have expected from the Lord of the Dread Fort, and Ramsay wasn't certain how he felt about them, even with the careful explanation of the logic behind it. He wanted to make a decision on that feeling, but he had so many unresolved issues now…

It didn't take long for the shell-shocked loss of control and lingering fear to spread apart like a veil of mist then, and Ramsay wondered deeply inside his soul why it had taken this long, but finally his anger began to rise again, like a phoenix from the ashes of the man he had become. Quietly his hands gripped the sides of his bed until they shook.

How had he forgotten? He had so much unfinished business. Thinking on his father's aspirations would have to wait; Ramsay had a couple men he needed to kill. His hands relaxed as he allowed rage that had festered within him for days slowly run its course through his mind, accepting its hot glow and tempering it into something colder and more dangerous.

Over the years Ramsay had grown extremely efficient at turning his hatred into a source of strength, and even developed the tricky art of keeping his mind in a state of heightened clarity even as the anger burned within, fueling his focus in a way that not only granted him resource to whatever agenda he was pursuing, but also frightened his enemies.

More than one of his victims had grown fearful at the sight of the quietly smoldering rage behind his eyes. He could even smile whilst in the throes of such hate, a useful trick for confusing those that would underestimate him. Right now, as had been the case many times in the past, Ramsay knew that blind rage would not serve.

Revenge really was a dish best served cold. With the slow surety of spreading frost, Ramsay's face turned away from its disturbed disposition, the one he had been wearing during the entirety of his meeting with his father, and transitioned into a calm, thoughtful look. After resting that way for a bit, his lips cracked into a small smile that eventually grew into a wide grin.

All that was left now was to decide how his tormentors were going to die for what had been done to him. Of course, his father would likely suspect him if their mangled corpses were discovered down in the room that they had raped him in, so that particular option was off of the table, as fitting and poetically ironic as it would have been.

No, he would need to make sure that both of them disappeared entirely after he had his fun. Already his mind was turning to the options. He could grind them up into sausages and feed them to the castle servants, but that would be messy and someone might actually wonder where all the surplus sausage was coming from.

The meat-headed torturer was quite large after all. No, it would be far less work in processing their rent bodies if he just quartered them enough to feed his hounds, whom would not wonder nor care where the meat came from. There would be risk in doing even that, though, so he thought on it and decided that conducting business in the tombs below might be best.

Not one of the soldiers retained by Roose Bolton had reason to set foot down there, as the only persons that might be interested in visiting Stark ancestral dead would probably be Starks, and there were certainly few of those left these days. He frowned in thought as the logistics played out in his mind. There would probably be servants…

They would be maintain the tomb, lighting torches or candles that might need to stay lit by tradition, keeping the place maintained and such, as many of the servants of Winterfell were still retainers kept on from the surrounding lands. Not all of them were loyal to the Boltons, and keeping to the dead was likely not a tradition his father would want to impose penalty on.

His father would reason that it was harmless, and not want to upset the locals any more than he already has, so simply barring the peasants from the tomb was not an option. Fine, he thought to himself, I'll just have to watch them for a bit, and use the tomb when they are gone. Surely there would be extended periods throughout the night when no one would bother with the dusty old basement.

Of course, he didn't have a great deal of time to scout out those musty chambers, though, since his father wanted to leave for the Wall in short order to carry out his odd new agenda. For this same reason he would also not have anywhere near the time he would like to have to fully commit both of them to a proper and lengthy punishment.

He wanted so badly for their suffering to be great as well as long, especially in the case of that smarmy always-smiling Wasp, but he would have to just settle for merely great and short. His growing frown paused before turning gradually back into a contented smile; he would just have to try extra hard to shove more into the time they had… and them.

Risk was an element that Ramsay was well familiar with, so he didn't dwell another moment on his half-assed idea to torment them quickly in the tombs, already moving his mind to what sorts of horrors he would visit each man, ironically spending far more time and hashing out far more detail in how exactly that part was to be carried out.

Such was his confidence that this matter had practically already happened, that he closed his eyes with a smile on his lips, still mulling over what Wasp would like without eyelids, and fell easily and peacefully to sleep as he contemplated the murder of two of his father's vassals. He might have slept like a baby through the night then, but this was not to be the case.

Ramsay woke with a start an indeterminate while after he had dozed off, his mind in a completely differing state than it had been when he had lulled to sleep. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat, and he cried out against the things that had just been happening in his nightmares, things that seemed all too real as much of what happened had once been reality.

Wasp's cruel face had grinned at him as his brutish friend held him down, and Ramsay had screamed, cursed, threatened and finally begged to no avail. They kept doing what they would to him, raping him as he strained in futility against the superior strength of his captors. Their faces had grown misty as the terrible ordeal had continued, until a familiar face had reared itself.

Reek's pudgy cheeks, his eyes small and close together and so very dim came so close to him then, panting as the man that had been charged to protect and watch over him raped him. Ramsay's mother knew this was happening; he had seen her approach the door to his room with a surprised gasp. He had called to her for help, but she only regarded him coldly and walked away.

As he woke from this terrible dream Ramsay had his hand still outstretched in physically even as he had in the nightmare, a cry for help on his lips. Dream slowly coalesced into reality, and Ramsay took in ragged breaths, trying to cope with the things that his mind had only just been telling him were so very real.

He had never been raped by Reek… that had just been his mind randomly pulling images to overlay his actual recent tragedy, wasn't it? Ramsay glanced down to see that the veil of calm he had so carefully pulled over himself before falling to sleep was completely shattered. His hands shook as if he had the palsy, and he couldn't seem to still either them or his mind.

In fact, his whole body still trembled and showed no sign of pulling back from that terrible state of frightened agitation. Why was he allowing a dream to bother him so? Ramsay had been plagued by many a nightmare in his lifetime, but never had he been so affected. He stood suddenly, trying to walk it off by pacing his room.

As he thus paced his mind returned to the look on his mother's face in the dream and his heart felt cold and heavy in his chest, shivers running up and down his spine, and his state did not improve. Reek had not raped him, he would not have done that! It was Wasp and his sneering accomplice that were at fault for his current mood; they needed to die!

Ramsay knew that now was not a wise time to carry out his plans. He knew that he should at least get a night's rest to heal and rejuvenate himself before setting their punishment in motion, but he also knew that there was no sleeping now after what they had done, there would be no rest for Ramsay until he had his terrible vengeance.

So he stalked from his room, watching carefully to see if anyone was noting him. A guardsman across the hall looked at Ramsay and his heart felt to stop for a moment, but then the man turned, seeming to care not at all that Ramsay was leaving his room. Ramsay let out a breath of relief; he had been worried that his father might have ordered his confinement to his quarters.

Trying not to seem like he was in a hurry or in any other way doing something that he should not, Ramsay walked at a pace that his fevered mind told him was far too slow in the direction of the barracks. He searched there for the better part of an hour before giving up, realizing that the two men his father had punish him must not have been common soldiers after all.

That complicated things, and Ramsay had to ask around for them, using their descriptions as he did not actually know their names, but none of the soldiers in the fort seemed to recognize his retelling of a thin man with long, lank hair or a large fat man wearing faded leathers with a balding pate. His frustration grew by the moment until finally the gods seemed to cut him a break.

Ramsay had worked his way through much of the barracks, waking soldiers inconsiderately with his questions until moving to the guards in the actual keep. The first soldier he presented himself to there, a tall muscled man that had been standing in the courtyard during his rounds nodded at Ramsay as the bastard of the Boltons asked his questions.

"Yes, I know the two men of whom you speak. They aren't soldiers, but rather are small folk from one of the towns just outside of the Dread Fort."

Ramsay frowned, "I suppose they have left to return?" Knowing that he was taking a risk asking a guard these sort of questions before his intended murders, Ramsay tried to deflect, "I believe my father still had work for them, and had not yet given them leave to return home…"

The guard narrowed his eyes at Ramsay and the young heir felt his heart hammer against his chest, certain that this man knew better than what he was saying and was going to report his suspicious behavior to his father, but then the guard smiled, "I'm certain they wouldn't want to disobey the Dread Lord, come right this way and we'll get to the bottom of it."

He had flashed a rather disarming smile Ramsay's way before saying that, but Ramsay couldn't help but feel uneasy about the fact that the guard had not answered his question completely. Still, Ramsay didn't have any other leads to go on, and he was in far too deep to back away now; that would only seem even more suspicious.

So despite his misgivings Ramsay followed the armored man as he led the way back into the keep proper. His sense of foreboding didn't lift as they did so; after all, why would two small folk be inside the walls of Winterfell? This only worsened as they descended deeper, moving down stairs past the crypt and further on to the cells of the dungeons. Had they been arrested?

The feel of the situation continued to raise the hairs on the back of Ramsay's neck, and as soon as his eyes glanced around the ill-lit dungeon and failed to notice any sign of life in any of the cells therein he tried to turn, but the guard's strong hand clamped down on his arm before he could leap back to the stairway beyond.

"I'm afraid that this is your stop, milord." The soldier grunted as Ramsay tried with all of his might to pull away, a vain attempt that only reminded him of how very weak his stay in the rack had left him. With very little effort the larger man overpowered him, driving him up and back towards the nearest cell. Ramsay reached for his blade, cursing at the lack of it at his waist.

He had been clothed and bathed, fed and sent to his quarters, but no one had deigned to return his knife to him. He had not thought to ask for it either, being as he had only recently attempted a patricide with the weapon in question, and had no doubts that he would not be looked on kindly for daring to request its return to him.

With a fierce but somewhat feeble set of punches and kicks Ramsay fought his captor as he was shoved indelicately inside of the awaiting cage, "Release me this once! My father will hear of this!"

Before he could try to move back to the gate the guard slammed it home, locking him inside. The helmed man nodded at Ramsay, a smirk on his face, "You're right milord; he will certainly being hearing of this."

This comment left Ramsay with a sense of unease even greater than being trapped within the cell had given him, as the implication thinly veiled within occurred to him, "N-no, wait… perhaps we've gotten off on the wrong foot. We could just…" But it was too late. The guardsman merely gave him a wisp of a smile and turned, walking back up the stairs they had come down.

Panic rushed into Ramsay like the flood waters of a burst dam, and he snatched hold of the bars of his cell, his wide eyes trying to pick out the retreating form of his captor as the guard walked away into the shadows, "Wait! You can't just leave me here!" Rage coursed through him as he slammed a fist into the metal, "I'll peel the skin from you for this; I'll make you beg for death if you don't return this instant!"

The other man wasn't coming back, though, and Ramsay's anger cooled quickly as he rubbed at his injured hand. Pounding a fist into iron hadn't been the brightest thing he could have done, and he was bleeding a little now. He flexed his fingers, making sure that nothing was broken, letting out a relieved breath when he intuited that he was only a little bruised.

Now all he had left to do was wait, he knew. That guard was likely returning to his post, knowing that Ramsay wouldn't be finding a way out of the cell at this hour. No one would be coming down here until morning at the earliest, not that anyone in Winterfell would feel a compunction to release the Bolton heir from his prison; he hadn't exactly made many friends amongst the servants. Ramsay swallowed as he looked bleakly around the small cell; all there was to do was wait for father.

Ramsay blinked blearily as the faintest shaft of light shone down upon his sleeping eyes. He groaned as he woke from his light sleep, unable to get properly comfortable upon the small dirty cot that resided within the tiny cell he had been locked inside of. The shoddy little cot was still worlds better than the rack, but his mind had found sleep difficult for the endless worry he felt.

As focused and determined as he had been when he had turned the rage within his mind into a deadly spear of thought, and as wild and panicked the need for revenge had become, now all he could feel was a tightening coil of dread as he watched the tightly bound leather boots of his father descend the steps that led into the dungeons.

Roose Bolton had no guards with him, and had likely been informed of Ramsay's detainment even earlier than whatever time of day it was outside. For all Ramsay knew it could still be night, but he doubted Roose would have come so immediately. His gut told him that the guards would not have informed him until at least first light.

The illumination that came down the stairwell now was torchlight, and as Ramsay watched, Roose stepped over to an extinguished torch upon the wall and lit it with the torch in his hand, casting light and shadow over both of the figures in the dungeon. The sharp, glaring features of Roose's irritated scowl were visible even from such a distance, and Ramsay swallowed.

Deciding to take the initiative, Ramsay put a look of feigned insult upon his own face in order to cover his very real nervousness, "One of those fool guards placed me here last night when I asked him when it was exactly that we would be leaving tomorrow morning! Did that fool even know whom he dealt with or did he think me a raving drunk!?"

The Warden closed his eyes with a slow, annoyed sigh, finally opening them again after he had finished composing himself, "Don't. Such blatant attempts at misdirection only continue to further sully whatever tiny shred of reputable character you might still possess. Let me remind you Ramsay that you were named Bolton, making you a noble heir…"

"Which is good reason why a noble such as myself shouldn't be manhandled and besmirched by some common soldier! What did the fool try to tell you I said to justify his false imprisonment? I know I have done little to ingratiate myself with the common rank and file, but…"

"Enough!" Roose roared as he stepped forward menacingly, a mien of authority in his features accented by the shadows playing off of him. Ramsay stepped back, a look of shock on his face. "You think me an imbecile? I know your games, Ramsay; I have watched you play them since you were a boy. I also know that it is entirely too convenient that the guardsman who placed you here tells me a story that aligns perfectly with what I knew you would do."

Ramsay had been planning a rebuttal, but his mouth shut with an audible snap as his father said this last bit, his eyes widening, "Y-you knew I would do what, exactly?"

Roose's face relaxed into a more sedentary expression as he resumed the more neutral approach that was the mainstay of his personality, "That guard was quick to put you here, wasn't he? You can't imagine why?"

A bead of sweat worked its way down the side of Ramsay's forehead, but he did his best not to show the hammering of his heart to his father, staying absolutely still lest his movements betray his agitated state, "I assumed it was because he wasn't even listening to what I said, as he had already decide to jail me even before he had fully set eyes on me."

The Warden of the North rolled his eyes, his mouth quirking in a displeased frown, "Still you persist. That guardsman, like every other guardsman within the walls of this keep, had been ordered to detain you the moment you attempted to find those two men that I had punish you. Do you honestly think I had not planned for your desire for revenge?"

At this point Ramsay knew there was no more sense in arguing; Roose knew exactly what he had been about through the words that the guard had most certainly relayed to him, and the fact that his father had gone to lengths to protect his tormentors proved that he had indeed intuited Ramsay correctly. Now he understood why the first guard with Winterfell itself had turned on him; likely Roose's command had not extended to every soldier in the barracks.

If he just hadn't been so reckless so as to bring his questions inside the keep he might have gotten away with it, and maybe even found those men in time! Now, though, it was too late, and he got the distinct impression that he was going to face some unpleasant consequences for his failure. Anger flooded into him on account of this and the fact that he felt like Wasp and the fat one were getting away with it.

"They humiliated me! You saw the things that they did to me! No pissant commoner should ever be allowed to treat a man of noble birth that way! They…!"

Roose cut him off with a booming shout that silenced him, "You forget your place! I ordered those commoners to do what they did; an attack on them for doing so is an attack on me!"

The Warden moved close to the bars of the cell, his pale blue eyes shining in the torchlight, "Are you going to keep attacking me and my right to rule within the walls of my own keep, son?" His voice was soft and low but there was an undercurrent of dangerous warning that drifted along with it that sent a shiver down Ramsay's spine.

There was no good option here, thought Ramsay. Either he backed away and lost this entire argument as his father successfully proves his point that Ramsay had no right to try to do what he tried to do, or Ramsay made the entire situation he had put himself in with his attempted coup worse by shattering what little trust his father was willing to extend.

Choosing the less destructive option out of simple self-preservation, Ramsay lowered his angry, frustrated eyes to the floor as he tightened his mouth closed so tightly that his jaw popped, his fists balling at his sides as he showed at least some measure of assent to his father's point and avoided challenging him any further.

Seeing that his son wasn't arguing anymore Roose once more slipped into an unreadable expression, taking a moment to call the guard down. A man came immediately, proving that someone had been very close at hand should Lord Roose need assistance, though Ramsay had to wonder what they feared from an unarmed man in a prison cell.

The gate was unlocked deftly and Ramsay started to step forward to exit, assuming that he was being released now that he had shown his father that he could heel when commanded, but his father pushed a hand against his shoulder hard, sending him careening back into the room to land with wide eyes upon the small cot.

Roose narrowed his eyes at Ramsay as he stepped inside of the cell, the guard behind him taking a relaxed stance in the doorway as the Dread Lord approached his son. "No one said that you were being allowed to leave", said Roose, coming to a stop at Ramsay's feet as he glared down at his son, "I will of course let you out of here, but only after I have punished you."

Ramsay was so lost within his own shock and confusion that he didn't even resist at first when his father reached down and plucked him from the worn surface of the dingy bed, but when Roose sat himself down heavily and turned around to fling his son across his lap, Ramsay felt the position and its uncomfortable familiarity stir a reaction in him.

"W… what are you doing?" Ramsay murmured as the Warden reached down to grab ahold of his pants. Despite the fact that his son was attempting not to fight his way out of his lap, Roose managed to pluck his trousers down easily enough while still maintaining his hold upon Ramsay, revealing the pale hind quarters that resided beneath.

It hadn't been terribly long since Ramsay had been demonstrably punished in front of Roose by Wasp, so the white of his cheeks were still quite reddened by an array of handprints, welts, and bruises that crisscrossed his otherwise alabaster skin. His struggling picked up speed as his mind began to fully grasp what was happening.

"Are you joking, father? What do you hope to accomplish with this?" Ramsay allowed an amused chuckle to play across his face, trying not to let Roose see how infuriating this choice was.

Roose Bolton did not pause in his efforts, roping a strong arm around his waist that had spent many more hours minding swordplay that Ramsay's ever had.

Suddenly, as Ramsay bucked his entire back against the terribly strong hold there and found himself wanting, he wished that he hadn't been quite as lazy when it had come to those disciplines that developed the upper body. Firing a bow took strength, but was much less exhausting than swinging metal around all day and he was in far less danger of retaliation, so he had preferred archery.

Before Ramsay could think to add to what he had said Roose responded, his hand calmly raising into the arm to deliver a hard swat across Ramsay's prone posterior, "I am simply reapplying the lesson that the men I assigned to lecture you in the art of humility demonstrated. It worked then and it shall work now. I shall not stop until you have shown a sufficient level of said humility."

Ramsay's eyes widened. He couldn't believe that Roose was doing this! His mind worked quickly to find a way out of this situation. Roose had believed that a spanking alone had been enough to make him submit! "Surely you realize that I only said what I said because I meant it!" He bit his lip as Roose's hand bit into the tender flesh of the underside of his ass.

"I… I really did realize I was wrong, as… as I thought on what I had done during my nights upon that rack; this debased and humiliating practice is unfit to a grown man, and had nothing to do with what I told you yesterday!"

Silence. Roose did not so much as look at him. Instead, the Lord of the Boltons continued to stare in a passive state of mild concentration at the focus of his physical effort, his callused hand driving into Ramsay's buttocks just as hard as before in an even tempo that reminded Ramsay of the way a Blacksmith worked; pacing himself so that he could drive the hammer throughout the day.

Clearly Roose Bolton did not buy his story about real penitence, which wasn't anywhere near surprising; after all, Roose had already clearly stated to Ramsay that he was well aware of his lies and his tactics on minutes ago. Ramsay tested his father's grip again, straining as hard as he could to break the Lord's grip, but failing miserably to swing himself off of his father's lap.

Not only did his efforts yield nothing, but as he panted Ramsay was left with the distinct impression that he had tired himself out far more resisting than whatever minimal effort Roose had applied in keeping him pinned from his superior position. "This does nothing!" he screamed, his face red with rage as he finally allowed his humiliated angst to surface.

"Don't you hear me, old man; you're wasting your time! This never did anything and it never will! If you want to talk, fine, release me; I am willing to cooperate!" Apparently this wasn't what the Warden wanted from his son though, and his hand continued its work as the same stoic expression fitted itself upon Roose's grey-stubbled face.

Realizing that Roose wasn't going to stop no matter what he said, Ramsay kicked and flailed and railed at his father in the loudest voice he could muster, filling the small room and the corridor beyond with the booming sound of his outrage, but it was all in vain, and eventually Ramsay screamed his own throat ragged, so that he could not even manage more than a hoarse wheezing curse.

As even his considerable rage dwindled in the face of the steady onslaught of time and growing discomfort that now progressed to shameful pain despite how rudimentary this punishment was, Ramsay's mind turned more inwards as he began to descend into a state of panic. He couldn't possibly tell his father that he had been raped into submission!

But as long as he withheld that there was something more to his earlier obedience, his father would doggedly continue believing that this ridiculous punishment was all it took to break the Bolton bastard, a fact that burned a hole in Ramsay's ego. Worse, the only other option, and really the only option, was for him to give up!

He held out for as long as he could, his body twisting in his father's grip as sweat beaded upon his skin, his strained muscles pronounced as he hissed and grunted and gritted his teeth against the torturous persistence of his father's hand. His eyes wild and desperate he would often glance back to see how red he had become, Roose's palm a mirror of his increased shading.

Finally though Ramsay had held far too long past his actual threshold for pain tolerance, and with a shaking body and shaken will he cried out, "I-I'm sorry father! Please… please forgive me! Please!"

Roose's hand paused, only the slightest movement of one eyebrow betraying his father's interest in this statement of concession.

Ramsay's breath halted and even his heart seemed to skip a beat, and then the Warden lowered his hand and Ramsay gasped in relief. Roose lifted his head to the guard at the door, "How many was that?"

To Ramsay's surprise, the guard answered, "I believe that was seven hundred and twelve, milord. Though I might have miscounted a few given the lad's squirming at times obscuring your hand."

Ramsay gasped; his father was having the other man count the strikes… why? The answer came immediately though, as Roose pushed Ramsay to sit upon the cot as he rose to standing beside his son, glaring down at him, "That is the number of times that shall become the standard at which we start any future corrections to your behavior."

Ramsay's jaw worked in abject shock, his eyes wide as he watched his father walk over to the door, the guard hurrying to move out of his way as he did so. That statement had hit him with a one two punch in that Roose was both promising that he would do it again if he found reason to punish Ramsay, and in that Ramsay had set the bar incredibly high by resisting for so long!

Surely his father had known that he was going to? Ramsay felt his eyes water with hateful resentment as his sat upon the cot, his hands balled into shaking fists on his knees, his ass burning underneath him as a reminder of what had just happened. He was ripped from his mournful state before it could rightly begin though as he heard an exasperated sigh from the doorway.

When he looked up he saw Roose gesturing through the door in obvious invitation for his son to leave, "I told you that we would be going after your punishment, or would you prefer to stay here?"

Ramsay's jaw clenched and he almost wanted to shout out that he's rather stay, but such a petty display was far from what Ramsay actually wanted, and even Ramsay had a limit to how much pain and humiliation he was willing to subject himself to over pride. So, head down in resigned shame, the Bolton bastard followed his father on what felt to be a very long walk back to his room.


	6. Who is the Servant?

Audio:

<https://app.box.com/s/q0lhwtgrdpf80h73a3mchlkamljdqe90>

Chapter 6: Who is the servant?

Ramsay's mind drifted over many possibilities and eventualities as he remained within the confines of his quarters. His father had not said that he could not leave, but neither did Ramsay wish to go outside. For one thing, his ass was so sore and welted that even walking proved to be an item of discomfort. For another, he worried how far leaving would take him.

In all the years that Ramsay had dutifully followed Roose Bolton, he had never thought so hard on simply leaving. On gathering enough supplies for the journey from the Winterfell kitchens and marching his way out into the uncertain future. However, no matter how much angst he felt now in the thrall of such recent humiliations, there were too many obstacles to such a simple plan.

The Warden of the North had made it clear that he needed Ramsay in sparing him, and Ramsay seriously doubted that the man was going to just allow Ramsay to run away from his House. The guards at the gate and maybe more were likely ordered to deny him passage much as the guard whom had taken him had been ordered to stop his attempts at revenge.

Even if this was not the case, what would Ramsay do with himself? He was a bastard, and lacking in any skills that would grant him success in the world outside of his House. He could hunt, and was fairly adept at wilderness survival, but what was he going to do with that? While living in the forests surrounding Winterfell as a hermit preying on travelers seemed interesting at first, Ramsay doubted he could make it that way permanently.

Ultimately Ramsay was a social creature like most people, hell, more than most even despite being a sociopath. He couldn't just disappear into the forests and live on the land like some savage. He had grown rather fond of things like wine, warmth and regular bathing. No, his only shot at fixing the mess his life had become was apparently to ride this out.

He was going to have to suffer through his father's insufferable speeches and posturing all over again, basically resetting back to what it had been like when he was a boy. But if Ramsay had been patient enough to wait for his time before he could again. This thought finally allowed him some peace, and slowly, gradually Ramsay came to a sort of peace within himself.

Sort of. Nothing he told himself was going to completely peel back the resentment and hatred he felt for wasp and that fat lummox that had dared hurt him, regardless of what Roose had commanded. They had gone far beyond what Roose had asked by raping him, a fact that must be addressed but which he still could not tell his father or anyone else.

That was going to have to wait, though. No matter how deserved their punishment, and no matter how badly Ramsay burned to once again act on impulse, his recent humiliations still stung him, both literally and figuratively. So for now Ramsay would have to bide his time for the true revenge he craved, Roose forcing him into patience in this as well.

This did sit well with a man whom was prone to getting what he wanted immediately and acting on impulse, and Ramsay had a great deal of trouble sleeping that night, tossing and turning from one side to the other as he rolled around his bed, unable to sleep comfortably upon his back, which only served to cause even more irritation on top of what he already suffered.

The next day Ramsay awoke with a start as strong, gloved hands pulled him from his bed. He gaped up at a tall man in middling finery the sort a commoner might wear when he wanted to look slightly more presentable than the rest of the small folk, but obviously lacking in the coin to purchase items of truly fine craftsmanship.

A leather belt of simple design with an iron buckle held up a somewhat worn pair of leather breeches, with a matching set of well-used leather boots that were tied up to the knee. A loose-fitting silken shirt failed to hide the man's girth, which was concentrated in his middle. Pulled over that was a black embroidered vest with gold stitching along the edges.

Ramsay reflexively slapped the man's hands from the grip they held on his left arm, growling in immediate irritation, "What is the meaning of this?"

The tall intruder stood up to his full height then, towering over Ramsay's diminutive form as he looked down his nose at Ramsay, folding his hands in front of himself, "I have been commanded to deliver you promptly to his lordship Roose Bolton for inspection after seeing you roused from bed."

With a huff of irritation Ramsay fixed his blue gaze on the taller man, a low growl working its way up from the depths of his throat at the way the servant was looking at him. His aggressor had bronzed skin so he certainly not from North; likely a migrant from Bravos or something, given his accent. He sported a thick beard and bushy eyebrows, both dark in color with a few streaks of gray.

Taking a deep breath, Ramsay looked into the man's dull brown eyes, "Go fuck yourself. I'll make my own way to father."

The servant refused to move however, and Ramsay gritted his teeth at the man's insolence as he stepped forward to find the larger man was not moving from where he stood, "Get out of the way, fool."

Still he didn't move, and too taxed with various other problems to trouble himself with the annoying fat man before him, Ramsay grunted in annoyance and side-stepped around the intruder, moving to get himself cleaned up for the day as the other man quietly watched, merely watching over his shoulder with the same stance, his hands still folded passively.

After using the wash basin next to his bed to clean his face a bit and toweling off as the chill air refreshed and woke him, Ramsay moved to pull his over clothes on, then stalked towards the door. To his surprise the servant his father had sent stepped in front of him, blocking him for a moment as Ramsay glared into the other man's eyes, then stepped aside to follow him.

Pointedly ignoring the other man, Ramsay whipped past to stride towards his father's chambers. In a calm voice behind him, the man from Bravos or wherever speaks, "Your father is waiting for you in his personal library." Ramsay paused, his hands balling into fists at his sides, his left eye twitching, but after only a moment he turned on his heel, heading in the direction indicated.

It was good that he was pointed away from his new tormentor, because if he wasn't the fool would likely see how he gritted his teeth in agitation as the man got under his skim. He hadn't bothered to address Ramsay by his title, despite the fact that his dress clearly placed him as a man that should know better, which meant he was doing it on purpose.

Deciding that he would deal with the arrogant servant later, Ramsay took a long slow breath, exhaling in a measured breath as finally he pushed open the door to his father's study. The mellow lighting of the room plunged him back into an atmosphere entirely different from the cold stones and open, snow-spattered hallways just outside of the door.

Roose Bolton was leaning back into one of the comfortable chairs he had imported into Winterfell, his cold blue shifting to Ramsay as his son walked into the room. Ramsay took a few steps in and listened, hearing the servant that had been following him shut the door behind him as he had expected. His own blue orbs addressed his father with a questioning look.

For his part the Dread Lord of House Bolton and Warden of the North gestured casually towards a chair across from himself. Ramsay frowned; why did his father keep insisting that he sit? The man knew with certainty that his son's cheeks were still bruised and quite sore from his recent punishments, and that sitting was uncomfortable!

Still, with a sigh Ramsay moved over to the small couch and sat, doing his best not to let more than a startled grunt escape him as even the soft cushion of the seat left him with a raw feeling. He resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably; if his father was doing this to make him squirm, then he very much did not want to give him the benefit of a show.

Ramsay sat back and emulated his father, crossing one leg over the other and steepling his fingers together atop his knees. The façade was a little marred by the fact that Ramsay did not actually exude the air of calm that Roose Bolton did, though. Instead he was well aware that his discomfort and the eyes of that annoying man standing next to him had him fidgeting.

Finally Roose spoke, "I'm sure you're curious why I asked to speak with you today. Earlier I construed a plan to get you onto the right track, so to speak. The fact that you have otherwise acted exactly as I predicted foreshadows your continued insolence regarding your place beneath your father, and thus I cannot be certain that you are ready for the next stage of my plans."

With one hand Roose gestured casually to the tall bearded man whom had so rudely awakened Ramsay that morning, "This is Rom. He will be acting as an instructor and mentor of sorts until such a time as he reports to me that you are ready to rise and become the man that you are meant to be. As such you will have no authority over him, as he only answers to me, at least concerning you."

Roose had not even finished his explanation before Ramsay's teeth began to grate against one another all over again. So essentially this fat foreigner was going to be telling him what to do? Was his father doing this simply as another way to humble him? Finally he unclenched his jaw and gave his father a pleasant smile, "Of course, father. I shall learn what I can."

The Warden's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Ramsay's false smile for a few moments, and then he gestured dismissively, "Then leave my study and see to it that you keep that promise."

Ramsay stood quickly, more than happy to escape the tension of the interview with his father, and glad to be away from his scrutiny once he had cleared the door leading out.

As soon as he was no longer under Roose Bolton's purview, his hands tightened into balls and his face clenched into a scowl as he whirled on the servant following him. His voice was a gravelly, fierce whisper as he practically spat his hatred into the other man's face, "Look, I'm certain that you have better things to do than follow me around, so I'll be on my way."

Rom simply shook his head, the funny hat he wore swaying with the motion, "I'm afraid that would be a direct violation to my Lord's command. As he just said, I am to act as your mentor and show you some of the things that you might have forgotten of your lessons in aristocracy since you were a boy. Your father is under the impressions that you have lost touch with your training."

A dark look passed over Ramsay's face as he tried for a moment to look threatening but quickly abandoned the attempt; Rom was far larger in stature, and the foreigner did not seem to be perturbed by Ramsay's glare at all. Instead, the bronze-skinned man only returned Ramsay's baleful look with a raptor gaze of his own that Ramsay eventually looked away from.

This only served to further darken Ramsay's mood, as now he was firmly under the impression that this mere servant was going to be using what his father had said to lord it over him! "Don't you have any idea what sort of man I am? If you think that you're going to be commanding me about or in any way telling me what to do, you have no idea what I do to people who try."

The foreign servant shook his head ever so slightly, pushing a few thick fingers into his thick beard in thought for a few moments. "I see; I thought at first when your father explained to me that you were unruly that perhaps you were another spoiled noble boy such as those I have had to work with in the past."

Ramsay growled deep in his throat at the assumption that he might be anything of the sort, even before Rom continued, making it clear that his thoughts on Ramsay were going to become even more unpleasant than that, "But I see that you are going to be one of the worst spoiled noble boys I've had to correct; your self-worth is inflated even more than most."

The Bolton heir's eyes bulged at the insult so directly lobbed at him in such a calm, measured voice. His entire frame contorted with ill-contained rage, which a quiet voice in the back of his mind reminded him was not like him at all. Usually Ramsay would reply to an insult with witty banter, but no words came now, as numbing anger flooded his mind.

This had to be on account of his more recent experiences, he thought dully; his father's treatment coupled with his spectacular failure to bring Wasp and company to justice must have left him even more shaken than he thought. With a visible expression of willpower, Ramsay lowered his raising fists and took a long deep breath.

His eyes still locked hatefully upon Rom, Ramsay turned and marched away, removing himself from the man's company as he went to the Great Hall. As he had expected, the servant followed him, so Ramsay pointedly ignored him as he went inside and passed the empty tables striding into the large kitchen that resided behind the main room.

Still avoiding allowing himself to even look in Rom's direction as he heard the foreign servant walk in behind him, so as to avoid Rom coming under any impression whatsoever that Ramsay was actually acknowledging his presence, the Bolton bastard reached for a shelved flagon of wine and fetched a cup from the cupboard.

He then placed the flagon over the cup, but when he went to tip the pitcher to pour himself a cup of the red liquid, a bronzed hand took hold of the handle and yanked it from his grip, causing him to grunt in annoyance and surprise, "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

Rom shook his head as he placed the flagon back on the shelf, "I've decided that you won't be allowed to drink."

For a moment all Ramsay could do was balk, staring at the tall darkly tanned man as if he had been slapped. He had not been getting enough sleep lately, and his mind was a bit bleary, he told himself. Because it had seemed as if… "Did you just try to tell me that I can't drink wine? Are you going to tell me that I can't fuck too?"

The other man shrugged, "If your doing so in some way impedes your progress in learning to be a better lord, yes. I have decided that you shall not imbibe spirits based on the attitude you have thus far displayed concerning your schooling. If you are done in the kitchens, it is time that we made our way to the Maester's hall."

Finally it was all too much. Thus far Ramsay had kept the fine veneer of control over his otherwise turbulent and chaotic temperament, but this last insult was too much for his psych to handle, and with a roar of defiance he slammed the cup in his hand to the floor, the ceramic dish shattering into a cascade of pieces.

"You do not command me! If I wish to drink wine then I shall do so!" Then he tried to push past the large servant, only to find that Rom was not giving ground. With a grunt Ramsay bounced off of the taller man, realizing as he did so that Rom was a great deal less soft than his portly stomach would suggest. Firm flesh resisted his passage, with Rom completely unmoved by his attempt.

As Ramsay blinked at the servant's continued insolence, Rom crossed his arms over his chest, flexing the powerful muscles in his limbs that Ramsay had not taken enough note of before, "You have broken property belonging to your House, young master. You shall come with me now and apologize to the keep Provisioner for your ill-thought outburst."

Ramsay's jaw hung open in raw astonishment, and giddy with the audacity of the man before him, he chuckled. The nerve of this guy! "I don't think so, fat man."

Rom considered him a moment, as Ramsay settled into a confidant smirk, hands on his hips as his posture told the foreign servant to go fuck himself in language far more audible than words.

With a sigh Rom reached out casually with one silk-gloved hand and grabbed hold of Ramsay's bicep, his huge hand nearly curling entirely around that muscle as he stepped back, pulling the Bolton along with him. Ramsay set his feet to their heels and tried to plant them as he grimaced in annoyance, but all thus did was cause him to stumble.

He had severely underestimated Rom's strength, and Ramsay could only gasp in reaction, his other hand clasping to Rom's gripping one as he was pulled mightily along with the tall servant out of the door that led out to the Great Hall and even beyond. As they exited the Hall, Ramsay gave out a frustrated, irritated shout, "Let go of me, you fool! Have you any idea what I can have done to you?!"

The foreigner dragging him along as if he weighed nothing didn't even bother to reply, which only made Ramsay angrier, a vein standing out on his forehead as he screamed his defiance, "I'll skin you alive for laying hand on me! I'll send bits of you to your next of kin, so that they might learn what happens when a fool dares touch me!"

Yet Rom did not react at all to any of this, simply continuing to pull Ramsay after him with inexorable force. Desperate and enraged, Ramsay kicked at the Rom's shins, but his blows were glancing at best due to the fact that Ramsay had to spend so much of his time staying on his feet, being dragged along the ground as he was.

The foreigner showed no response to his attacks against the servant's thick legs, but when he balled a fist and punched Rom in the groin he finally elicited a reaction. It wasn't the one he was hoping for, though, as the servant merely grunted out a pained 'Oof!' and then backhanded Ramsay, hard enough to jerk the Bolton bastard's head to the side.

He brought his hands to his face, stars crossing his vision as Rom went on pulling him through the keep, trapped between his shock over having his father's servant strike him, and the fact that the blow he had delivered so off-handedly had stunned him so terribly with pain. He shook his head, struggling to get the ringing to cede from his ears.

Just as his eyes finally allowed him to focus Rom roughly pulled him to stand up straight, as he had been leaning precariously in his stunned state. Ramsay blinked around, taking in his new surroundings. He vaguely recognized this room from his initial tour of Winterfell, but it took him a moment to remember it exactly.

This was the Quartermaster's Office, and stepping up to a wooden counter before him was a small man he immediately recognized at the head Provisioner for all of the mundane sundry that kept a large keep like Winterfell running from day to day. He was a balding older man whom adjusted his dirty loose-fitting robes nervously at seeing Ramsay, "Can I help you, milord?"

Ramsay's teeth grate together as he finally plants his feet solidly beneath him and he rips himself from Rom's grasp, nearly falling as the servant lets go of his arm in the same instant. Before he can right himself and demand that the Provisioner call the guards and have Rom hauled to the dungeons, the tanned servant speaks up instead.

"He has come here to tell apologize for intentionally breaking a cup in a fit of bad judgement." Rom turns and levels an impassive stare at Ramsay, one of his solid black eyebrows lifting ever so slightly, "The young lord wishes to make a better impression on his subjects by proving that he understands humility, do you not, Ramsay?"

With a vicious growl Ramsay swiped his hand through the air, having had quite enough of all of this! "Provisioner, you are to call the guards here immediately! Tell them to bring me the tools I most commonly use to teach fools what House Bolton stands for!"

The Provisioner watched Ramsay's eyes flash with dread anger, but despite the fact that he clearly didn't want to be the one to say it, he blurted, "S-sorry, milord; I can't do that!"

Rom raised a hand then, ignoring Ramsay's baffled stare as he placated the Provisioner, "No need for you to apologize, good Provisioner; it is the young master Ramsay that has come here to express remorse." Turning to Ramsay, Rom's calm eyes regarded him, "As with all other denizens of Winterfell, this man is aware of your father's edict concerning me."

Ramsay balked, glancing over at the Provisioner and then back to Rom several times as his mind quickly concluded his lack of options based on that last statement. Roose must have told everyone inside the keep right down to the lowliest servant if even the Provisioner was already aware of the power he had bestowed upon Rom!

That would mean that the guards would most certainly have been alerted to that fact as well, nipping any attempt by Ramsay to cause harm to Rom in the bud. Helpless rage contorted his features, and against most men this would have meant he would have already drawn his dagger and placed it between Rom's ribs!

But he had no dagger, and physical violence wasn't an option against a man of Rom's size with only his fists. Even his seething hatred for the quiet arrogance of the foreigner did not blind him to the vast difference between his size and the other mans, and even now his cheek still stung with the quick blow Rom had so casually delivered.

He wished now that he had hit Rom in the jewels much harder, but at the time he had been fighting to stay on his feet and so could not plant them, not that Ramsay had much experience at throwing punches anyways. Still, he could not help but wish that the one shot he had gotten in had done far more damage than it had!

Ultimately he had only annoyed the foreign servant, and received better than he had given! Flushed with a sense of defeat in the face of this aggravatingly calm enemy, Ramsay started to turn on his heel towards the door, "Father shall hear of how you have attempted to degrade his son before the small folk. I'm leaving."

Try as he might, Ramsay was unable to harness that unnerving calm that Rom exuded, quite a bit of his angst shining through in his words. He was still up on his heel, having yet to actually step more than one pace away when Rom's gloved hand clamped down on his shoulder, driving his back to where he had started.

The servant held one thick gloved finger up a few inches in front of Ramsay's face, speaking in the same exact mild tone that he had before, "You will apologize as promised, or you will be punished."

Ramsay's face practically glowed beet red as his fists curled at his sides, the madness of extreme embarrassment momentarily making him reconsider throwing a punch at the cocky servant. What had he meant by that? Certainly Rom might have authority of command granted by Roose, which Ramsay abjectly refused, but the asshole didn't think he was going to punish Ramsay, did he? He must mean he planned to report to his father…

For all of a long moment Ramsay actually paused in the tirade he had planned to snap out at Rom. The foreigner likely got all of his arrogance from his father's gifted authority over Ramsay, which most certainly meant he would be reporting to Roose if Ramsay continued defying him, which would explain his warning as well.

Did the fool not realize that such temporary power would not protect him from this abuse later? Ramsay was going to relish removing those steadily staring eyes of his! With a quick glance at the Provisioner Ramsay knew that apology was not an option. Let the man head back to Roose to report; Ramsay would figure out a way to deal with him away from those whom might witness it. If Rom was too stupid to understand whom he was dealing with Ramsay would show him!


	7. Trouble

Audio:

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Chapter 7: Trouble

Deciding that he would leave the details of how to intercept the servant to the near future, Ramsay improvised as he so often did, deciding that if he taunted Rom and showed himself unmanageable enough, that the bold servant would finally allow him to separate himself. To aid in this he took a half-jump backwards, getting out of reach of the foreigner.

As he took quick steps back towards the exit, Ramsay gave his ultimatum even as his mind whirled on how he would stop Rom; improvise a weapon once out of sight perhaps? "Go ahead and tell father, fool; I have dealt with your impudence long enou-"

His sentence was cut short as the tall heavy man sprung across the room far faster than Ramsay had expected!

He was incredibly light on his feet and quite graceful for a person who weighed so much, and Ramsay's words turned into a cry of dismay as the foreigner grabbed ahold of him and pulled him roughly once again back to the exact spot he had just been sitting in. Ramsay didn't have a chance to shout his outrage before Rom spoke in a calm voice again.

"Provisioner, it is only fitting for you to watch Ramsay receive punishment for his continued resistance to the established authority, since he still owes you and apology. Would it be alright with you if I spanked him here?"

Dumbfounded, the Provisioner just stared a minute with a nervous look to him, but finally he gave a small, slow nod.

Mortified by the casual statement and shocked into a stunned sense of disbelief, Ramsay did not immediately react as Rom pulled him further forward, hauling him so that his chest slammed down onto the counter directly in from of the Provisioner. At this point though all of the reactionary fury and horror over such a display suddenly surged through him all at once.

Ramsay slammed his hands into the counter and pushed with all of his might, additionally fueled by his panicked rage and humiliation at Rom's statement washed over him. "How dare you?! You will die in the worst of ways, there is no way that my father ever gave you the power to…!"

Rom interrupted him with his calm but booming voice, even as he planted an arm across Ramsay's back, negating Ramsay's attempt to escape entirely.

"Actually, young lord, it is common knowledge to all within the confines of Winterfell and perhaps even a few beyond that both myself and each of the soldiers actively on guard duty have been explicitly granted the power to punish you corporally, with specific emphasis on your need for spankings in particular."

Once again Ramsay seized up, barely even aware of it as Rom leaned into him on the arm that lay across his back, pushing Ramsay's body against the counter firmly enough to raise him up upon the balls of his feet and nearly his tiptoes beyond that. He stared forward wide-eyed, his mouth agape at the clear truth ringing in Rom's words.

He was snapped out of this state when Rom suddenly tugged his pants down with his free hand, causing Ramsay's mind to refocus on the present situation as his eyes locked furiously with the Provisioner, "Don't you dare just stand there and watch this happen to me!"

The little man jumped, lowering his eyes immediately, but he did not offer anything else in the way of assistance.

Apparently Rom disapproved of Ramsay's intimidation of the Provisioner even if it was only partially successful, evidenced by a grunt that issued from the foreigner followed by a sudden blow across Ramsay's backside by his large hand! Ramsay's feet danced across the floor upon his toes as his body rocked to the jarring tempo Rom set.

Even, measured swats rang out, creating a loud noise of flesh meeting flesh at great speed, the only other sound within the room Ramsay's shocked grunt and hisses of pain and impotent rage. He continued to pull, push and struggle as best he could, but it seemed that even if he did have the leverage to do so, he would still be unable to escape.

No matter how he squirmed, Rom continued on at the exact same tempo, clearly not at all pressured by Ramsay's full-blown struggle, showing none of the strain on his deeply tanned countenance that Ramsay had upon his pale one. Panic was blooming within Ramsay just as quickly as the steady spread of stinging pain bloomed upon his ass; he couldn't stop this!

Desperate and unknowing of what other option he could possibly have, Ramsay once more turned his glare to the cowering Provisioner, "You h-had best find a way to get this lummox off of me, little man, or I'll…!"

Ramsay's tirade was cut short as he yelped suddenly at a sudden severe increase in the amount of force Rom was hitting him with, "He'll do nothing, Provisioner. His threats hold no power."

This statement did not sit well with the Bolton bastard, and he screamed furiously as he rocked against the human restraint that held him in place, doing little more than knocking his own knees against the bar counter before him. Struggle and yell as he might though, these things did nothing to change the fact that at least currently, Rom was correct.

So instead he pointed out some facts to the two other men in the room, his eyes narrowed dangerously and spittle flying from his gritted teeth, practically frothing at the mouth his fury was so great, "You may have brought me low with your reliance on my father's edicts, peasants, but he won't have such restrictions on me forever…"

He turned a cold, baleful expression to each of the other men in turn, using all of his will to speak evenly through the continued bludgeoning that Rom delivered to his ass; the nerve of that man, persisting even as he spoke his dire threat! "Father will at some point remove these foolish restraints, and I will return to the power I hold by right!"

It was getting hard to keep his voice even and steady with the way that Rom kept on hitting him, but Ramsay persisted in maintaining his threatening aura, "W-when that day comes, and it will not be far along, I will remember who slighted me today, and there will be a terrible price to pay!"

The effort required to keep himself menacing was growing by leaps and bounds, as Rom's hand hit him harder all the time, proving that the foreigner both had not been striking him at anywhere near the full power he had available when he had started, and that Rom was in his own quiet way increasing the physical discouragement he was applying to Ramsay's words.

And that force continued to grow, causing Ramsay's eyes to widen in subtle shock at the true extent of the power in Rom's thick arms, as he stubbornly refused to quit, "I-I am already g-going to kill this f-fucking f-fool! B-but you, Provisioner! You have a chance to spare yourself from a t-terrible and grisly d-death! I'll f-fucking skin you alive!"

For a few moments it seemed as if the small, scared man behind the counter might buckle. His eyes flitted fearfully between Ramsay's hateful orbs and Rom's calm ones. He watch as Ramsay squirmed against the bar, hissing through gritted teeth as Rom kept right on hitting his naked posterior, the large man gazing down at the Provisioner even as he punished Ramsay for his words with terribly hard swats.

But in the end the little man turned his eyes once more to the floor, helplessly kneading his hands together in an extremely vexed fashion, "I-I'm sorry milord, but I cannot disobey the command of the Lord of the House! He was very clear that not only was Rom In authority over you, but that you yourself have been all but stripped of your title!"

Ramsay's eyes widened further, his mouth dropping open in shock as in set in how completely Roose Bolton had removed his status as an authority figure within the House. His father knew him, and had certainly assumed that Ramsay would try to usurp the command that would ruin Ramsay's day so completely.

But at the same time, he had also known Ramsay well enough to know that the Bolton bastard would try to threaten his way out of the situation. After all, not only was Ramsay quite skilled in the art of intimidation in general, but he had a terrible history of backing that intimidation up with horrible and complete violence.

The sort that men and women whispered about in dark places, fearful that if they spoke it too loudly that such grisly fates might somehow be met out to them! Even so, this obviously cowardly little piss-ant was ignoring what he could clearly see was a future in which he suffered those consequences; why? The only two things Ramsay could think of were Rom and his father.

Either Rom, whom Ramsay had to admit was an unknown factor to him, had some sort of reputation of note that the Provisioner knew of that was a counter to his own… or his father had somehow said enough to make the peasants of Winterfell more afraid of Roose than Ramsay. Or perhaps some combination of the too.

After all, with all of the combined acts of atrocity that Ramsay had committed both in the name of the House and just for fun, it was difficult to imagine that either one of the two had the necessary clout to block out the full effect of all of the things that Ramsay had done during his life to build such a fantastically gory reputation.

However, no amount of rumination on the subject changed the fact that Ramsay had no control over Rom in any way; the man simply wouldn't be intimidated. Worse, Ramsay was unable to sway even a coward like the Provisioner whom trembled before him, too afraid even to leave. If Ramsay could not influence even that man…

His eyes widened and his nostrils flared in renewed agitation, as Ramsay let out a wild, desperate and manic cry, thrashing about in a fashion that proved just as futile as everything else he had thus far done. This Rom, despite being a civil servant of some kind, was nearly as strong and large as Wasp's brutal comrade.

He was powerless, just as Rom had said. The more he contemplated this the more erratic his movements became, as rage finally began to dissipate into other familiar and far more humiliating states of being. Ramsay groaned with the last bit of defiance he could muster, and finally he caved under the monstrous onslaught of his father's aid.

Rom's hand paused in the air as Ramsay blurted out, "Alright! I-I'll do it, already! I'll say the words!"

The foreigner behind him straightened, but made no move to release Ramsay whatsoever. If anything, his other hand only strengthened the feeling of entrapment by grabbing his right shoulder and resting there with a grip that was less than gentle. "Go on then, young master. Tell the Provisioner what it was you came here to say."

For a few moments Ramsay hesitated, his mind reflecting on how similar this was to how Wasp had made him feel, right up to the burning sensation that yet lingered in his buttocks, reminding him what Rom's firm hand upon his shoulder means should he fail to deliver on the words he had just promised. How had he managed to get into another situation like this?

Before he could fall too far into the despair that comes with self-pity, Rom's grip tightened a little, and though the servant's face betrayed no intent, Ramsay was certain that some unknown time limit was running down. If he did not speak soon he would return to the humiliating position of a few moments prior!

So as to avoid that awful fate, Ramsay traded it for an almost equally scarring ritual, that of apology. Ramsay had apologized many, many times in his life, but every single one of those utterances had been a lie to get something he wanted. Only recently had he ever been forced to apologize, and the act most certainly left a bad taste in his mouth.

"I am sorry, Provisioner. I have broken a near worthless item of clay in the form of one of the crude cups from the kitchens." He by no means meant this apology any more than he meant the last one that Wasp had forced from him. Surely Rom knew this, but Ramsay supposed that was why the apology was forced; it wasn't about whether he meant it. It was a matter of dominance.

It quickly became clear that Rom did not approve of Ramsay's half-assed apology, as not only did he not stop striking Ramsay, but he actually started to hit the Bolton bastard even harder! "W-wait, not fair! You said that when I apologized that you would stop!"

Rom merely raised an eyebrow at this protest, "I said no such thing. I said 'if you don't apologize, you will be punished'."

Ramsay's eyes bulged at the subtle shift in meaning of those words evidenced by Rom's stance and continued application of force to his underside. He didn't have to wonder at the nuance, though, as Rom politely spelled it out for him in no uncertain terms, "You already failed to apologize, and so you are being punished. I never stated your punishment would end with an apology."

"Though…" the big man continued, "…it would certainly continue until an apology was formed. I promised the Provisioner such and I had no intention of leaving without delivering on that promise. How fortunate for you that you have at least some foresight in relieving yourself of continuing in this state in perpetuity."

The Bolton heir's teeth grated against each other as he grimaced against the will of his aggressor, sweat tracking down his forehead as he struggled against both insult and injury. Rom went on, "However, I am not satisfied completely with your apology, and since I was not yet done punishing you 'full sore' as pertaining to the requests of your father, you have time to make a better one and ease this somewhat more for yourself."

Ramsay stuttered as he sought to find a response through the surge of humiliated rage that suddenly overcame him due to the severe nature of Rom's words, "Y-you can't talk to me like that… how dare you!" It didn't matter that his fury had returned, though; Rom's hand continued its timeless march and Ramsay knew without doubt he was going to have to sink lower still.

It was the only way he was going to find any sort of release from the tragedy that had so quickly developed within the Provisioner's office. His hands grasping the counter so hard that his knuckles turned white and his face miming the strain felt throughout his body, Ramsay allowed the words to wheeze out of himself at great length.

"I-I am sorry, Provisioner…" He left the simple statement at that for a few moments, and not knowing whether Rom continued to smack him because he wasn't done making him 'full sore' or if it was related to his lame apology, Ramsay found himself apologizing again, his voice wavering as he attempted to make it sound more sincere.

This went on at length, Ramsay's pleas for forgiveness and heartfelt apology echoing through the room along with the monotone sound of Rom's palm meeting his ass. He was screaming out how sorry he was in an irate shout when finally the foreign servant seemed to deign either that he was sore enough or sorry enough, or perhaps both.

Ramsay leaned heavily against the counter, his arms shaking with the exertion entailed by all of the resistance he had mustered against Rom. For his part, the servant didn't seem to have exerted himself at all, though. This was just another nettling fact for the Bolton, as he growled at Rom when the other man yanked his trousers back up.

"All is well for now, young master. Please refrain from further tantrums, or I'll be forced to exercise this sort of punishment on you again," stated the foreigner, just as mellow as ever. Ramsay reached up and straightened his tunic and coat with more force than necessary, his teeth still locked together in a snarl as his eyes widened slightly to Rom's words.

There were so many things he might say concerning what just happened, so many hate-filled words and promises he could dispense, but ultimately Ramsay just wanted to be gone from there. Gone from the sight of the Provisioner, out of the room that he had only so recently been humiliated within. So he swept out in an angry stride that wobbled just a little as he winced.

He was terribly sore, no doubt welted extremely over the face of much of his ass, and it burned terribly like a reminding fire of what happened that would not so easily let his deep shame be forgotten. To his annoyance, Rom stepped out and followed him briskly, not unexpectedly disallowing Ramsay from being able to get away by himself.

This stoked a terrible feeling of loss of control in Ramsay, as any plan he might form to deal with the sticky servant would require him to get away from the man first. He had no allies to speak of, though, and no safe haven within the keep. Doubtless the guards at the gate would have been commanded by Roose to block him from exiting Winterfell, so even that wasn't an option.

He stormed back to his room, trying to close the door behind him only to have Rom's thick, dark hand catch it before he could and easily force it open against Ramsay's weight. "I have been instructed to watch you, young master. I cannot accomplish that through the door."

Ramsay's lip curled back, "I'm going to take a nap, so you can take a break, lard-ass."

Rom shook his head ever so slightly, "I think not. It hasn't been that long since you woke for the day, and I intended to take you to the Maester for some instruction on a few points I think you might have forgotten concerning the duties of a lord."

The sheer intensity of Ramsay's glare might have melted stone, "I think not."

The bigger man let out a small, long-suffering sigh, "Look, child; either you can come along with me willingly to recommence your training, or I can haul you there and we can continue approaching this problem in the more physical manner." Ramsay's face belied the shock and indignation he felt, but he also did not doubt the truth of Rom's words.

At great length Ramsay finally replied, his face reddened with his mounting frustration, "You'll reap what you sow in time, old man. Everyone has to sleep some time." Despite the anger and defiance in his voice, Ramsay clearly remembered his recent scuffle and the shame it produced, and did not attempt to actually resist Rom's demand.

With much hesitation and even more swearing Ramsay stepped back out of his room and began to make his way to the Maester's chambers. Whatever Rom might want him to do, it couldn't possibly be worse than allowing the Maester to also see him get into another wrestling match with Rom, one that would ultimately end with more shaming.

It wasn't a terribly long walk from his own room up to the Maester's tower, but it felt like one to Ramsay, in that he at least was so acutely aware of how much like a prisoner he was being treated like within the confines of his own home. The sort who needed an escort to keep an eye on him at all times; it seemed Roose trusted him even less than he had imagined.

Not that making an attempt on his father's life didn't give the Dread Lord reason to be wary, but that didn't mean Ramsay liked this sort of treatment. A few more steps put him into the Maester's private rooms, and Rom coughed loudly as he entered the door behind Ramsay, alerting the old man writing at his desk that he had visitors.

The Maester looked up, a fat, balding man with bushy eyebrows and a clean-shaven face. "Can I help you gentlemen?" Rom stepped closer but left no room for Ramsay to have a line for the door in doing so, going to far as to close the portal behind himself as he did so. "We shall need all of the manuscripts on rulership that young Ramsay studied as a youth."

Ramsay's hands balled into fists and he looked away as the Maester gave him and Rom a curious look, "From when he was a boy? Would that material not be a little… basic for him at this point?"

Rom answered immediately, "Normally that might be the case, but the Lord Bolton has decreed that Ramsay be reeducated for his more recent failings in understanding how a noble should compose himself."

Seeming to sense the resentment that rolled off of Ramsay in waves, the Maester quickly nodded, "Certainly. I'll get everything I can together and you can peruse it at your leisure on the bench and table over there." He pointed, indicating where they could go to sit, and then hurried away, presumably to fetch the mentioned items.

Rom moved that way and then stopped, staring at Ramsay until with an exaggerated sigh he also moved to seat himself upon the bench, his face contorted into a perfect picture of irritated contempt. They waited for a good while in silence until finally the Maester returned, spreading a number of scrolls and a few old books in front of them.

"Now be careful with these," the Maester said, "Most are aged to a state of brittleness, and I am loathe to have more scribing work piled on top of what I already have to do." With that, he turned and left the other two men to do as they would. Rom picked up a book and glanced at the title as he responded to the retreating man, "No worries, Maester; I believe Ramsay has learned to respect the property of others."

This jab caused Ramsay to bristle, but he held his tongue. The last thing he needed was for Rom to provoke him into saying or doing something that would give the servant an excuse to make this trip to the Maester's into another scaldingly humiliating experience. As it was, Ramsay squirmed uncomfortably a bit, finding the hard bench an unwelcome seating arrangement.

They sat there for hours as Rom grated at his sensibilities with one item or the other on how a lord should handle his affairs in court, how he should present himself politically, and how he should approach matters of war. It was terribly tiresome, and Ramsay fought the urge constantly to leap up in outrage.

Finally, though, the burden of listening to Rom prattle on about decorum and strategy came to a close as the sun sank to the ground on the horizon. The servant stood and followed Ramsay from the tower with a quick thanks to the bleary Maester. Ramsay was practically rushed as he made his way back to his room, and tried once more to shut the door on Rom.

Once again this failed, but having expected that would be the case, Ramsay simply turned and readied himself for bed, mumbling angrily, "You're going to watch me sleep? How endearing. Maybe later you can hold it while I take a piss too?" Rom did not rise to his insult, though, simply taking a seat across from his bed as he lie down to rest.

Sleep did not come easily that night, and Ramsay often found himself looking down the length of his bed to where Rom sat in the shadows. Did the man intend to watch him all night? Did he never sleep? Ramsay got some small joy in the thought of Rom being too nervous to sleep because of what he had said earlier, but he sensed that this wasn't what this was.

In any case, Rom sat there unmoving as Ramsay lay feeling offput by his presence, the big man's arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the wall watching Ramsay. It took some large amount of time, but Ramsay at last found sleep, drifting off despite himself. He awoke with a start a while later, glancing around his room for Rom.

The big man was exactly where he had been before. Ramsay's breath caught in his throat; what the fuck was with this guy? Then he heard it; slow, even breathing so rhythmic it could only be one thing. Rom was asleep despite his strange position, his arms still folded as they had been before. Ramsay moved slowly, as catlike as his body would allow as he rose from his bed and slid to the floor.

Rom had not moved yet and the big man's breathing continued uninterrupted. Ramsay's mind whirred with possibility; should he attack Rom now that the man had let his guard down? A few things immediately stirred to mind as to why that wouldn't work; for one thing, Rom might wake easily, if he had such mastery over his sleep that he could sleep that way to begin with, and Rom was formidable.

For the other, Roose Bolton would almost certainly take the death of the servant he had assigned to put Ramsay to task personally. He was already on terrible terms with his father, and it was unlikely that Roose would spare him twice. Instead he decided to flee; he would steal out of the room, find some clothing to disguise himself with and protect himself from the cold, and then slip from the keep.

Ramsay began to lightly pad towards the door, thinking that it would have been optimal if he had spent more time finding whatever secret exits the keep might have before this point. He would keep an eye out for an escape option, but for now he would have to try bluffing the guards or perhaps even scaling down one of the walls. A dangerous option that one, and only as a last resort.

Once he got out of the keep he could get away somewhere and clear his head enough to think of where to go from there. One thing was certain though; he could not continue on as things were! Maybe during his childhood he had been able to stomach all of this, but he found the arrangement that Roose had made with Rom an unworkable one. He'd have to come up with something clever to explain his sudden disappearance.

As he reached for the door, though, a bronzed hand suddenly slammed into it, blocking his exit and causing Ramsay to jump in surprise. He whipped around to face Rom, whom glared down at him as he waved a finger at Ramsay, "Attempts to leave my presence shall be dealt with harshly. Apologize immediately if you wish…"

Rom didn't get any further than that; Ramsay hopped back and grabbed a chair, swinging it with all the force he could muster at Rom's skull, "Fuck you, and fuck your fucking apologies!" His eyes bulged in shock as Rom easily caught the offending chair, ripping it from his grasp to toss it aside as Rom walked calmly towards Ramsay, whom had just cornered himself between a wall and the bed.

Giving out a desperate cry of strain and despair at the spiraling disaster, Ramsay leapt at the bed intent on rolling across it to give himself some room to maneuver, but Rom sudden surged forward, his big hands locking onto Ramsay's limbs and pinning him down. Ramsay shouted again as he immediately began to kick wildly in a mad effort to free himself.

This failed utterly, however, as Rom moved in to solidify his hold on the much smaller man, pinning Ramsay neatly into place upon the bed as Rom himself shifted into a position that both gave him even greater control over Ramsay as well as allowing his superior weight do most of the pinning, so that Ramsay would be the only person straining himself.

The big man glowered down at Ramsay as he carefully removed a glove without giving Ramsay a chance to escape while doing so. Next he removed the pants that stood as the only obstacle between the callused heel of his own palm and Ramsay's awaiting buttocks. Ramsay squirmed violently at the feeling of cool air upon his already scorched cheeks, feeling panic set in.

"N-no, wait- ah!" His protest was cut short as the servant began to strike him hard and fast across his backside. Rom did not work up slowly as he had back at the Provisioner's office, but rather he set in right away with a barrage of high-speed, high-power swats that already had Ramsay reeling, especially because the Bolton heir was already so sore from the last bout.

Rom's voice sang through the room like a clarion bell, smooth and even as always, only its volume any indication to an observer that the usually mild-mannered servant was finally feeling a little irate, "If you had let me finish speaking before you so rudely attacked me, a direct representative of your father's will, you would have realized what you risked."

His hand continued as he spoke, and Ramsay wasn't sure if Rom was hitting him harder or if it was merely an illusion of force created through the fact that every swat Rom laid now adding to the pain he was already in. "Or perhaps you knew that I was going to threaten to tan your hide well for continued resistance, boy…"

He was just too tender now! Ramsay shouted as much in pain as anything else now as he continued to struggle weakly, his face reddened almost as much as his ass from a mixture of strain and frustrated, shamed anger. Rom took no heed of the curses that Ramsay screamed, though, speaking in the same voice, "…either way you have proven that you deserve what you're going to get."

The large servant fixed Ramsay with a face almost devoid of emotion, but eyes that held a special sort of baleful glare that gave even Ramsay pause, causing the arrogant heir to freeze his efforts. "Now all that is left is to see how much you shall deserve today. Your father will be unhappy to hear about all of the trouble you have been getting into."

Ramsay's breath began to come in short, ragged gasps then; he was going to tell Roose still! When Ramsay had originally agreed to play nice it had been under the assumption that his father would feel that he actually would. If Rom started telling him tales of misbehavior, though, it could only extend or even worsen all of this madness!

Only an idiot fails to see when he has completely and utterly been defeated. Ramsay immediately went slack in Rom's gasp, licking his lips and swallowing with a dry throat, "V-very well. I cede that I have been an unruly charge. Please tell my father nothing of these events…"

Rom raised an eyebrow at him, pausing in the dispensation of punishment to consider Ramsay, "I think not."


	8. Slow Dawning

Audio:

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Chapter 8: Slow Dawning

Ramsay's jaw dropped as the tone of what Rom had just said resonated through the room. In the awkward silence left behind the sound of Rom's hand recommencing its work once more filled the space they occupied. Not only was the punishment not stopping despite his admission but Rom was still going to tell his father on him!

"Y-you can't! Don't do this…" Ramsay flailed both physically and mentally for purchase that could be found as he discovered himself losing a battle on two fronts, "…I-I will do as you ask! I'll submit to your inane instruction, whatever you want; all I ask is that you don't tell father!" Desperation was as clear upon Ramsay's face as the sweat that beaded there as he regarded Rom.

The large servant regarded Ramsay the same way that he always did, his dark eyes devoid of any reaction that Ramsay could discern. His voice replied evenly, "You will, young master. Not because you have made some sort of deal with me, but because you do not want to continue suffering this particular form of discipline time and again."

For several moments Ramsay couldn't even manage a response. He was too flabbergasted by what Rom had said to form reasoning or words in retaliation. The man meant to completely subjugate him! Taking Ramsay's offer in order to get his submission would have been much easier for Rom, and even left the option of telling Roose to hold over Ramsay.

But Rom was not interested in having it easy. The man clearly intended to follow his own rules of which Ramsay was still grasping the basics for, and simply bludgeon the small man into line regardless of how much effort that might entail! It reminded him of Wasp's stubborn doggedness in dealing with Ramsay's willfulness, and worse it reminded him that Wasp had eventually gotten what he wanted.

No! He thought, it was happening all over again! As with Wasp, this man was intent on grinding him into obedience. Worse than Wasp though, Rom intended to do it without the need of raping him or even restraining him… somehow this struck Ramsay as being infinitely more demeaning and humiliating than even what Wasp and his oversized ape had done.

As Rom's hand continued to compound the stress of what he was feeling even as he thought on it, Ramsay squirmed futilely against the bigger man and considered how much worse it would be that he was allowed almost unfettered freedom within the keep simply to be threatened with this treatment anyways, as if it was inevitable.

Surely a machination of his father. Roose wanted him to know that he could be brought to heel at any time and anywhere, whether it be his bedroom or the Provisioner's office or… Ramsay shouted out furiously, but the noise did nothing to allay his condition as Rom went right along slapping his ass redder and redder.

This meant that Rom could and certainly would punish him in exactly this debasing fashion anywhere Ramsay resisted Roose's edict of control over him. That opened up a plethora of avenues for Ramsay to be humiliated publicly before every single one of the people he might have ever considered to be his peers, until none of them considered him to be such.

They would think of him only as the laughing stock of House Bolton; the bastard who kept getting spanked well into his thirties because he couldn't quite seem to rid himself of childish habits that earned him juvenile punishments. As if Ramsay was too small and weak a personality within the hold to consider punishing him like a proper man…

These thoughts should have continued to further enrage and incite Ramsay, but his threshold for pain, as great as it had become, was beginning to wane. He was already so very sore from what Rom had done prior, and he was well past the point of being able to use his anger to shield him against his fear, desperation and shame.

He struggled weakly for only a few moments more and then he resigned himself to the fate that Rom had assigned him, the fate that Roose had dictated for him without his knowing. Perhaps late when he could his muddled, fractured thoughts together he could try to pull it in enough to make a plan for dealing with his antagonist, but for now…

For now he was going to submit, just as he had done for Wasp and his friend when those two had first tested the depths of Ramsay's resolve. Just as Roose Bolton had then again tested the weight of his conviction and found Ramsay wanting. Yet again he failed to muster enough strength to endure this endless tide of indignities.

With a voice that rasped sorely from a throat raw with the strain of constant shouts, curses, and growls of anger, he weakly decried his state, "Enough! P-please! I give up, y-you win… I'll do as you say, only… only please release me…" His eyes watered and Ramsay realized he was on the verge of tears from being pushed so far.

He snarled and struggled madly to refrain from letting those tears spill; he could not allow Rom to see him lowered so much! The big man kept swatting him, replying in his almost gentle voice, "You do not decide when the punishment stops, young master; I do. You will have to resign yourself to enduring the totality of your mistake until it is actually done."

Ramsay wanted to be angry, to be furious, to rage against the foreign servant. But he could manage not of that, instead only taking a ragged breath and letting out a sound that sounded far too much like a subdued whimper for his liking. He turned his head away from the other man as he continued to ask to be let go, each request more desperate than the last.

The Bolton heir had hidden his face so that the bigger man would not see the tears that managed to rip themselves free of their moorings along with his anxious despair, and hoped that Rom would also not notice that he had begun to sob occasionally and ever so quietly to himself between wracking shouts of pain.

It felt so severe now, the punishing hand that delivered the justice Rom had decided he needed. It felt truly inevitable and painstakingly measured. Ramsay finally lay out limply against Rom, no longer struggling in any capacity, the fight having gone completely out of him. Only at this point in the painful experience did Rom finally cease his tireless actions.

Ramsay almost jumped a bit when he realized that Rom had already stopped, that it was over. It had begun to feel endless, as if the cruel servant would go on all day and into the night again before stopping. He was so deliriously happy with relief at the fact that it was finally over that he didn't even muster anger towards Rom as the big man helped him up.

"Clean yourself up, young master. You have a busy day ahead of you, and it will not do for the court to see your cheeks wet and your eyes red-limned from crying." Rom looked at him steadily as he said this, and as immediately as he heard the words Ramsay wiped furiously at his eyes with the shoulder of his shirt, drawing his sleeves across his cheeks as he looked away from Rom again.

The Bolton heir turned to glare at his father's servant for several long moments, and then slowly receded from the challenge in Rom's calm face. He instead moved to the wash basin in the corner of his room to do exactly as Rom had suggested, pressing the cool water within the stone bowl to his eyes repeatedly to clean himself.

Rom nodded towards his wardrobe, "Now dress yourself; only a fool enters the frigid air this far north dressed only in his bedclothes." Ramsay growled under his breath at the statement; he had only been going out this way because it was his only recourse. Rom was just calling him a fool to nettle him. But he didn't argue this point, as that wouldn't serve him in any way.

Instead he walked slowly over to the wardrobe and began getting dressed in the layers of cloth that would best protect him from the bite of the cold outside. He felt to be in no special hurry, and pondered silently to himself what it was that Rom might have him do today. More time spent at the Maester's tower perhaps?

For his part Rom did not seem at all distressed by the fact that Ramsay was so obviously dragging his feet in doing as commanded. It was a mixed blessing that the man seemed happy enough to have Ramsay follow orders at all. Ramsay didn't actually want to peeve him off, for obvious reasons, but it was also annoying how hard it was to ruffle Rom.

He wished he could run the razor's edge a little more in favor of irritating the other man, if only so that he could have the petty joy of getting him back in some small way for the humiliation he was putting Ramsay through at his father's behest. But Ramsay brooded to himself that Rom was likely the type to hide that far too well.

Most likely, Ramsay would only discover that he had annoyed the other man once he was intractably within the zone where Rom would punish him for the slight. Finding out that Rom had finally been pushed hard enough for Ramsay to see it would lose its value if it only proceeded another barrage of shaming ministrations.

So Ramsay sulked quite heavily as his brooding thoughts continued to conclude with how fucked he really was in this whole arrangement. He had thought it bad when he had discovered that Roose Bolton had barred him from revenge on those that had slighted him before, but now he was to live with a shameful shadow that threatened to destroy his faded reputation at every pace!

One of which he had little recourse to combat, at that… Ramsay had already considered going somewhere he could improvise a weapon, but the same hurdles to that plan still lay annoying across it. He was not certain he could actually take Rom anymore; the servant proved himself far more combat ready than the average servant.

And as always, attacking Rom bore the additional problem of consequence. Rom had already promised to tell his father of his misbehaviors, which Ramsay could only guess as to what would come of that. But if Ramsay were to take up a lethal weapon and attempt to murder the servant, his father would do more than temporarily negate Ramsay's status.

He was trapped in a sort of gilded cage, living out the motions of the life he had previously, but unable to actually make any meaningful changes to his fate that he himself would prefer. Ramsay's whole body was tight with displeasure, which was only amplified as he drew on his clothing to feel it run over the bruises on his backside.

Ramsay hissed with displeasure at the grating feeling of tender flesh so sore that even cotton clothing could cause such pain. If Rom was not present, he would have gone over to the mirror over his dressing table and observed the damage done to him. But he did not want to give the big man the satisfaction of seeing his own handiwork.

Looking wasn't necessary for Ramsay to know that his ass was most certainly covered with an array of red, blue and black welts and bruises. So much so that sitting was certainly going to be an onerous task that he did not look forward to. He growled again to himself as he pulled the last items of his gear into place, striking a fearsome look into his mirror.

Through all of this Rom waited patiently, until at last Ramsay turned to him and walked over to the servant, "Well, what meaningless activity shall you have me indulge in today fat man?" As usual Rom did not rise to his insults, instead replying as if Ramsay had asked a simple, innocent question devoid of malice.

"I shall bring you to the dining hall briefly followed by a tour of the keep and a visit to the servant's quarters. Then we shall go by your father's library to submit a report of our progress." That last part made Ramsay's eye twitch, but he addressed the other matters instead, since Rom had done well at making his conversation with Roose seem nonnegotiable.

"There won't be anyone in the dining hall at this time except maybe a few servants; father is not keen on gathering for breakfast. If he eats at all in the morning he does so on his own and expects everyone else to do the same."

Rom simply nodded, "Indeed. The fact that it will be empty makes it perfect for our next task. Come."

With that Rom stepped from the room, waiting for Ramsay to follow. Ramsay considered for a long moment to refuse in some way, but after lingering irritably for a few moments he apparently decided that it wasn't worth it at this point, and stepped through the threshold of the door after the foreign servant.

The insult he felt playing quietly beneath Rom's insistence in telling him where to go and when only intensified as they walked to the dining hall. Every step of the way Ramsay could feel the two instances of the large man's exertions to Ramsay's backside throbbing and stinging painfully as he walked. Both the pull of muscles and clothing caused him nonstop duress.

It was relatively minor pain to what he was capable of enduring and even to what he had just endured back within his room, but that didn't stop the welts he so distinctly felt from causing his internal rancor from rising nonetheless. Every twinge and burn from his welts made him remember exactly what had caused them, like a living reminder.

Eventually they made their way to the hall, and Ramsay had to face a new dilemma as Rom indicated one of the massive chairs surrounding the great table reserved for the members of the House and their most honored guests, "Show me how you would take your place at the table, young Lord. Make sure to tell me of anything you might do concerning others that might be in the room as well."

Ramsay glared at him and then flopped into the chair at the head of the table. He regretted the action immediately, of course. A bolt of pain shot up through him from his rump that was strong enough that he fidgeted even though he had been anticipating it. The entire action had been designed to show Rom that he could sit just fine without pain, but instead it was a failed attempt at such.

Convinced that he had been asked to sit in the unpadded wooden seat in an effort to degrade him further with the uncomfortability it provided, Ramsay's face reddened as he immediately gained the feeling that he had lost the round of subtle mind gaming with Rom. However, Rom said nothing about this, and seemed to be looking for something else.

"You have sat at the head of the table. I do believe your father would take issue with such a blatant form of disrespect."

Ramsay blinked, "My father isn't here… and you blind in addition to being old and fat? Being the only Bolton in the room makes this table entirely mine."

Once again Rom did not show the slightest reaction to Ramsay's taunts, only answering in that unnervingly calm voice of his, "Yes that is the case at this moment in time, but if the young master will remember, in this exercise I have asked that you tell me anything that you might do concerning others that might be in this room as well."

Rom gestured to the chair that Ramsay sat in, "Which could easily include your father, or his wife, or even a visiting dignitary from one of the other great Houses. Since we are practicing for the event of a real sitting with your family, it would be best if you set your mind to the task of pretending that they are present, Ramsay."

This caused the younger man to scowl, his face a grimace of irritation, "Did you seriously bring me here to play at dinner parties? Is my father aware of how incompetent you are?"

Ramsay had more to say, but something dangerous flashed across Rom's eyes that caused him to go silent as the servant replied at length, "We are here today to relearn etiquette."

With a grand gesture at the table and the room itself Rom continued, "Eating in a sociable atmosphere has been how men have not only strengthened bonds within their families and Houses, but also how they have on many an occasion created a relaxed atmosphere for the civil debate of some of the most important discussions in the history of the world."

"While it is true that most of the truly important decisions are made by rulers within their rooms of power surrounded by their most trusted and wise advisors, plenty of world-changing choices have been made from the comfort of a dining chair when an amiable air could be developed between all parties present for the event."

Rom stepped over to stand close to Ramsay, staring down at him as Ramsay continued to sulk, apparently not enjoying the speech, "You have of course been schooled in this fact before by your father's Maester years past. Clearly though you have forgotten your lessons, as your father relates to me your rudeness at the family table."

Ramsay's eye twitched, "My father told you that I am 'rude' at the dinner table?" At first he was a little insulted, and then a little amused once he realized that the assertion wasn't at all untrue. After all, Ramsay had often gone out of his way to be rude at the table, though usually not to his father himself, which would have been pretty stupid.

No, Ramsay's tirades had typically been against the visitors to the table that his father had invited over the years. His insults and attitudes had usually been minor things, like Ramsay's not quite subtle assertions that Roose's new wife Walda Frey was too rotund for sex. On occasion Roose would lightly reprimand him, at which point Ramsay would stop.

As often as it had happened Ramsay had not actually thought that his father might have been keeping tally of his offences, but perhaps Ramsay should have realized better given what sort of man his father was. This thought sobered him somewhat, as his amusement gave way the annoying truth that Roose had loosed Rom on him concerning dinner etiquette.

He raised an eyebrow at Rom, "Are you going to teach me which one is the salad fork next?" He allowed a bit of jeering into his voice to accompany the sneer that followed his words.

Rom regarded him coolly, "No, I think you have all the knowledge you need concerning the utensils, but I am going to ask you to sit up straight within your chair. Slouching is poor form."

This felt like too much, as if Rom was intentionally turning Ramsay's intended insult around into a barb that only affected the Bolton bastard. Also, telling him something like that only further solidified the feeling that Rom, his father and perhaps everyone at the keep was somehow under the assumption that Ramsay should be treated like a child.

So he remained exactly as he was, the only movement in his body the dangerous narrowing of his eyes that he had many a time used to cow peasants into compliance. "And what if I don't? Are you telling me that you would humiliate my whole House in front of all these guests over something as paltry as the manner in which I take seat?"

The foreign servant walked over to Ramsay slowly, his expression completely unchanged but something in his stance shifting ever so subtly in a way that sent alarm bells ringing through Ramsay's mind. "I will spank you. Your father removed your powers for multiple reasons. He foresaw the very real eventuality of your discipline in front of representatives of other Houses."

Rom was inching closer, and as he finally drew up beside where Ramsay sat, the Bolton heir realized with a sort of belated disdain that he was now sitting completely upright, apparently having moved unconsciously as the threat of the larger man neared. Rom went on, "Even if another House was not here in person, servants could relay such information."

Ramsay's face went pale as the ramifications of what Rom was saying started to settle in, "Are you saying that my father has assumed that everyone and anyone is going to know what he and… you have done to me?" His voice was weak as he spoke. He already knew the answer. With what had already happened so many times…

Everyone likely already knew. Other Houses were probably already referencing him to their children as what not to become as adults. Nobles of all shades and peoples of all walks of life probably regaled the humorous outcome of his attempted coup. Even common men and women likely raised ale in cheering on a good laugh at his expense.

The foreign advisor answered gravely, "Indeed. Thus House Bolton is not concerned with whether or where you are punished, so do not think that the eyes of others upon you will ever prove anything more than a disservice if you should force me, your father, or one of the guard to punish you publicly. You can only sully your own name further."

For a long while a pall of awkward silence fell over the room as Ramsay just sat there staring ahead at nothing, the revelation of how far his reputation had truly fallen finally sinking into him. Not only that, but how far it still had yet to sink, should he resist Rom or by extension his father's will in any way shape or form.

Finally Rom gestured gently with a rising motion, "Get up." Ramsay blinked, standing from his chair and staring dully at Rom for a long moment before realizing what it was that the bronze-skinned servant wanted from him. With shuddering, hesitant motions Ramsay turned and moved a few chairs away and sat again to the satisfied nod of Rom.

"Good. You are now allowing room for your father and his wife at the table, and no longer slouching. Let us next go over all of the various ways you should introduce yourself and greet others based on what province they hail from. Also, I would like to see a recounting by you of your understanding of your lineage and the lands you currently hold."

Ramsay was still staring ahead, feeling detached from what he and Rom were doing, still lost in the shock of realizing that everything he had ever done to cultivate his reputation had been dashed to tiny pieces in the matter of a few days. He had somehow supposed that his father would in some way shield him from that happening.

But Roose had not saved him from himself. So many times Roose had chided him quietly and warned him that his recklessness would be his undoing, but only now did Ramsay see a real and lasting blow to his own legacy. He answered Rom's questions in a monotone, going through the motions and hoping that it would all be over soon.

He needed to get away, he needed to find a place to think, but Rom had told him that his day was filled with activities like these. And of course, then he would have to meet with his father. 


	9. Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It been a while since I updated due to life being life and what not, but I wanted to make sure I uploaded everything in time for Christmas break (for those that may have more time to kick back and read.) Merry Christmas everyone! :)

Audio:

<https://app.box.com/s/ef3f0cffdt2xusyik7tco0zmianucdgz>

Chapter 9: Expectations

Once Rom was done with his litany of questions and grandstanding on the finer points of decorum, he asked Ramsay to accompany him and the two began to make a slow circle around the castle from the perspective of the battlements. Ramsay shivered as he grabbed hold of his greatcloak and pulled it tightly about himself.

"It's freezing up here. We could just as easily tour the castle with less time spend walking and fooling with ladders down where the wind wouldn't be buffeting us like this." Ramsay's face was set in an unhappy frown. He was having a bad enough day without having his tormentor bringing him into yet another state of hellish discomfort.

He started to turn, as if to make his way off of the tall walls that ran the perimeter of Winterfell, but Rom quickly reached out and grasped him by the arm, one of the big man's hands easily folding itself all the way around Ramsay's bicep as Rom pulled him back, "Nay, young Lord. We could not then gaze upon the lands beyond our walls."

Ramsay's irritable gaze whipped up to glare at the taller man, "I don't need to look to know that there is nothing but snow, tundra and rocks for miles around! What are you wanting me to do? Admire the woods? The next community is miles away!" He gestured emphatically along with his incited words, his tone suggesting what a tourist Ramsay felt him to be.

Rom watched his tirade without comment until Ramsay had said his fill, letting out a slow breath that could be seen misting in the freezing cold air that surrounded them. "I expect you to do exactly as your sentries would do here; to gaze out upon the land you call your own and watch for the approach of enemies, or at least allow your mind to take in the largeness of your territory."

Frustration continued to cloud Ramsay's face as he responded tersely, "I am fully aware that my father controls more land than the other kingdoms combined; he reminds me of that fact constantly without necessitating a trip to this precipice. And insofar as the guards and their duties are concerned; that is why we employ guards!"

Clear refusal played quietly and resolutely across Rom's mild features, "No. A Lord is no different from any guardsman in his duties to protect the realm he rules. This should have been taught to you as one of the first duties assigned you as nobility. Your people will judge your right to rule often based on whether you remember this."

Ramsay sneered, "I care little what the peasants think of my rights as they see them. If any are stupid enough to contest my rule I will make examples of them."

Rom's eyes narrowed at this comment, "And if they all rose as one in defiance of what they perceive as tyranny? What if the guards turned on you as a man they did not see as one of their own? Would you share a fate with the Mad King?"

The younger man shook his head, his smile a mockery of what Rom was telling him, "You sound like father. I have had these people cowed just as easily as I've trained my hounds. You don't need to worry about revolt when you have the pissants below you properly afraid of what will happen should they attempt to turn on you."

An eyebrow arched up the foreign servant's brow, "So you believe people are truly like dogs, to the point that you expect blind obedience from them no matter how you kick and abuse them?" Rom's dark eyes flitted along the parapet upon which they stood, finally locking onto the item they sought; a wandering guardsman making his rounds.

"You there!" Rom called, waving at the approaching sentry. The guard paused, clearly taken by surprise that anyone was out in the freezing weather atop the keep, never mind someone looking for him in particular. Shaking off his momentary hesitation the guard strode over quickly, clearly recognizing Rom from the garb he wore.

Ramsay stiffened at the sight of the guard as the man drew close enough to recognize through the light dusting of snow that fell constantly upon them. It was the guard whom he had attempted to get help from in finding Wasp and his accomplice, the some soldier whom had led Ramsay down into a trap and imprisoned him at his father's behest.

The man was tall, even taller than Rom, with a broad and imposing build. He glanced down at Ramsay as he neared, a slight smile gracing his lips as Ramsay reflexively snarled at the sight of him. This man might have been acting under orders of the Dread Lord, but he still had played a part in the horrible humiliations Ramsay had since been dealt.

Rom pointed at Ramsay as he addressed the guard, "Guardsman, would you say that you are afraid of the young Lord here?" Ramsay balked, not having expected Rom to so pointedly seek out a way to prove the young heir's reasoning unsound.

With a frown and something suspiciously close to a decidedly disrespectful smirk the guard shook his head, "Not at all."

Ramsay's hands balled into fists and his teeth set on edge as Rom continued, "If we were to enter into a war with one of our neighbors, would you trust the young Lord at my side to do what must be done for the sake of his people?"

The guard scoffed, "I wouldn't trust him to do anything that didn't serve his own interests knowing what I know of him. And any man that would stab his father in the back is no man that can carry any sort of trust here in the North. I reckon that if things got too dangerous for him here that he would run just like any other self-serving ass would, or let us die just to surrender in the end to save himself."

"Look here you…" Ramsay's eyes flashed with mounting rage at the intolerable tone that slipped into the guards increasingly brazen insults about Ramsay, but before he could say more Rom set a hand upon his shoulder, causing him to pause momentarily as he gave a startles glance over at the servant.

During this brief lapse I Ramsay's words Rom inserted his own question, "And if you discovered the young Lord acting outside of the interests of the House?"

Ramsay's eyes went wide at the malice in the guard's face as a wide, toothy smile spread across features, "Why then I would have to employ the command given to all of us guards concerning the 'young Lord'. I'd throw him over my knee on the spot and give him the hiding of his life."

The heir to House Bolton's lips drew into a thin, angry line as Ramsay regarded the man who would so brazenly declare such a thing to his face. His fists remained balled tightly at his sides, and he was trying to draw up to his full height in outrage. Except that Ramsay's full height fell considerably short of the towering guard's stature.

It did little good to posture, bow out his chest or glower when he had to glower up to do so. The faint smirk remained upon the sentry's face, and the man never took his eyes from Ramsay's, not in the least intimidated by the young Bolton, just as he had told Rom. This was all part of Rom's ploy to prove himself right.

Ramsay shot the foreigner an angry look, tearing his own eyes away from the unwavering guard, "This is all the doing of my father in undermining the reputation that I had established. He wouldn't have dared even think such words previously, nor will he again once I have reasserted myself within my rightful role as heir to my family name."

Rom shook his head at this, but didn't need to say anything as the guardsman he had called over answered for him. The tall burly man stabbed a finger painfully hard into Ramsay's chest, forcing the much smaller man to fall back a pace at the push, "You'll never be a Lord Bolton again at the rate you're going. Your father has had your number all along…"

The sentry turned to regard Rom, "…has this unruly pup been giving you a hard time, Steward? I could sort him out right now if needed; giving his ass a tanning might help take the bite out of the cold for both of us I think…" Ramsay reacted to this threat with vastly widened eyes, his mouth dropping agape as he took another step back.

His appointed keeper only calmly shook his head, "Nay, my question concerning your potential reactions to Ramsay's misconduct were hypothetical. I was not implying that he is currently misbehaving badly enough for you to need to employ Lord Roose's command here and now. You are behaving yourself during your lectures, aren't you, Ramsay?"

Ramsay practically gagged at the insult such a question drove before it, feeling a spike of anger almost hot enough to dispel the cold around him surface between his temples. Still, his gritted his teeth and worked through it, knowing that the soldier who even now hovered over him waited for a reason to make things so much worse.

Ramsay moved his eyes to his feet and stared hard at his boots as he growled out through teeth clamped nearly entirely shut, his fingernails biting into the flesh of his palms as he did all he could to restrain himself from losing his focus on keeping things from escalating. "I have been following my father's desire to listen to your ramblings, old man."

A sharp crack of impact sang through the air and Ramsay's head suddenly jolted to the side, the young heir finding that his check suddenly stung furiously and his wide eyes blinking for a moment slowly before he finally realized that he had just been struck. The tall guardsman had actually slapped him right across the face!

He was so shocked that at first he only returned his gaze to the taller man, a bewildered expression crossing his face as the large sentry spoke, "You'll not talk to the Steward that way if you know what is best for you; a mere word from him and your life could become a hell of which you have no reckoning of."

With a grunt of disdain and a sneer at Ramsay the guardsman turned again to regard Rom, "Are you sure this whiny little shit should be allowed to disrespect you like that? I offer my services in helping to set him straight if you change your mind." He turned his glare back upon Ramsay, whom had gained enough of his senses now to start looking angry over what had been done.

Rom shook his head, though, "I appreciate the offer, Guardsman, but I am not bothered by Ramsay's petulant attempts at insulting me. It was my hope that with time he would realize how foolish an endeavor was, and it seems that you have helped be a part of that. Ramsay very likely will mind his tongue more now, won't you Ramsay?"

With a terrible exertion of will and a considerable strain on the tattered remains of his aching pride, Ramsay swallowed what he would like to say as he became so red in the face that the guard must certainly notice the effort it took him to do so. "I'll speak to each and every member of this House and our allies as each person deserves."

Not exactly an agreement with Rom was wanting him to say, and an obvious statement that Ramsay wasn't going to be doing as told regarding this, but entirely too subtle for Ramsay's taste given how lacking in subtlety both Rom and the guard were. Still, Ramsay was very wary of the willingness between them to take this to places he was unwilling to tread.

He was being bullied, he thought. Pure and simple, Rom and this lowly sentry were mocking him and directly threatening him with violence if he dared defend himself in any meaningful way. It was a basic tool of intimidation that Ramsay himself had used on many an occasion. Browbeating a person with their helpless state tended to put them in their place.

Except that it was he that was being treated like this! Ramsay looked away and clenched his fists again against the impotent fury building within him at the thought that Rom could parade him around his own keep and have his lessers tell him off however they wished. He glanced at the steward, wondering if this was really the point of them being out here.

Rom showed no indication of enjoying Ramsay's annoyance in any way though. He wore the same unperturbed expression that always blanketed his face, with no clues given as to the thoughts behind his veiled countenance. It was irritating just contemplating how shrewd a man Rom might actually be beneath his benign façade.

Or he might be a blithering idiot. Ramsay had to hold out hope that Rom was actually not terribly clever, and was instead simply following his father's commands to the letter. Perhaps the steward seriously believed that he could actually change Ramsay, like he was some youngling that he could swoop in and educate.

This thought, that Rom was actually a dolt who was far in over his head making an enemy out of a man like Ramsay, was what now kept him moving forward. He would do as he had with his father for so many years. He would smile, and pretend he gave a shit what anyone else wanted or thought until once again opportunity knocked.

He realized his one great mistake now, as he gave the guard a humoring smile; he had told himself that he was well past needing to do all of this. His pride had dictated that he could not start over after he had worked so many years and gotten so far! But he had tried to kill his patriarch and failed; his very continued existence not only spoke of a second chance, but the restart that comes with that.

So with an almost violent shift in his own thought process Ramsay pulled himself away from all of the desires that he felt concerning the agony and eventual death these men deserved. He ripped himself free of the moorings he held in needing to prove himself now. As painful as it was to accept, his failure with his father had caused him to fall, and hard.

At the bottom of the ladder he might be, but even if it took another lifetime he would prove that even from the dust of his failure he could rise again. Besides, it should take less time to ingratiate himself with his father this time, and even if the old man never trusted him, Roose would be old and feeble in a mere decade.

In the worst case scenario Ramsay seizes power from the aging Bolton in the same maneuver as the one he had failed at this time. But already his mind spun with other, more subtle ways he could kill his father if that was even needed. Maybe if he proved himself well enough and found a way to disappear his new brother he would take the seat as Warden naturally.

So with as much conviction as a crocodile's smile, Ramsay beamed at the guard and nodded almost cheerily at Rom, deciding that he would play an entirely different game now. Rom watched him for a moment and the sentry frowned at Ramsay's sudden shift in temperament, neither man fooled into thinking it sincere.

But what could they do but go along with it, as long as Ramsay was cooperating? The guard took a few more jabs at Ramsay before continuing his patrol, but Ramsay was thoroughly armored against giving reaction now, and the sentry soon bored of his efforts at insult. He left the two alone as Rom continued to tour Ramsay around the rest of the perimeter.

After they had made their circuit, Rom gestured and then led Ramsay down to the servant's quarters. Once there Rom immediately tested Ramsay's conviction to remain humble, "Now that we have arranged for every servant who has operated in this keep while you have lived here, I would like you to make a formal apology to all of them."

Ramsay balked, his eyes widening in surprise, "What? What in the world do I need to apologize to all of these people for?"

Rom raised an eyebrow at the heir, "You pretend not to know or do you think so little of the ramifications of your actions that you don't remember?"

After a moment's thought Ramsay's mouth became a hard line as he pondered what Rom said and allowed his gaze to sweep across the assembled peasantry. He had raped one of the servant girls, after she had made the mistake of thinking she was attracted to him upon first meeting. He had also beaten a few of them for various reasons.

On top of this, Ramsay was recalling now that almost every person here had received at least some form of terrible verbal abuse, usually just because Ramsay liked to watch the servants squirm. To apologize now after all the things he had said… Ramsay glanced over to Rom, whom studied him intently. Rom was testing his resolve.

There was no way to apologize that wouldn't in some way humble him before the lowly servants, and Rom wanted to see if his charade could take him that far. Gritting his teeth momentarily, Ramsay forced the muscles in his face to relent and relaxed into an easy smile, nodding to the gathered throng, "Good people of Winterfell…"

He thought quickly, trying to decide in which way he could word an official apology that would be quite as demeaning or seem like he was being forced into it, which he was. "…I have been reevaluating how I've been treating you all, and after careful consideration I've decided that I have been… unkind." He walked over to a small woman, who recoiled a little as he laid a hand on her shoulder.

His false smile glared with malice behind his eyes and in his tone of voice, as the pitch he spoke his words with gave all he said a mocking note, "I have decided that I shall hereafter strive to be… nicer to the lowly dregs that keep this fine keep running smoothly. I shall endeavor to treat each and every one of you just as you deserve…"

Turning that smile to each servant before him caused a wave of unease, and though Rom frowned ever so slightly, he did not move or speak to either interrupt nor disprove of Ramsay's actions. This is too easy, thought Ramsay. Rom seems to be rather lazy in the actuality of his task. Though the servant clearly saw that Ramsay was insincere, he was willing to accept bald lies as long as Ramsay danced the part.

The awkward silence was broken when Rom bid Ramsay to follow, apparently satisfied that they had done enough at the servant's quarters. Ramsay told himself there was nothing to this next and final item on Rom's agenda for the day, but still his stomach tightened as the steward led him on towards his father's library, where Roose Bolton awaited them.

He knew why, too, though he did all he could not to think on it. Just handle one thing at a time, he thought to himself. He changed his tune since the day had started, maybe Rom would speak of him more favorably than he feared. As they entered the warm room that smelled of paper, Roose glanced up and beckoned them to sit across from him.

The Dread Lord set aside the book he had been reading, the title of which was printed too small for Ramsay to see from across the room, and folded one leg squarely atop the other as he leaned back into his own cushioned seat, locking his hands together atop that leg as his eyes casually took in both Rom and Ramsay.

"I trust that Ramsay's first day of instruction has gone well, as my son gave me such assurances before he left my presence last?"

Ramsay squirmed self-consciously under Roose's cool blue gaze, and to his horror Rom did exactly as he had feared he would and worse, "The young lord lied to you concerning his willingness to cooperate, as he resisted me from the moment we last left this study milord."

Upon hearing how bad this report was going to be Ramsay's heart began to hammer in his chest as he heard Rom add nail after nail to the coffin Ramsay had made, "He attempted to physically resist and even went so far as to destroy property, for which he was punished and made to apologize to the Provisioner."

Roose raised one eyebrow at that and shifted his eyes back to Ramsay, whose own gaze fell to the floor, "Did you, now? I'm impressed that you got him to apologize at all… was there anything else?"

Rom nodded and continued, "Yes, milord; he continued to oppose my attempts to follow your commands for him and tried to escape my grasp, at which point I punished him again."

The Warden gestured at Ramsay, "When you say 'punish' I assume you are spanking him as I asked?"

"Yes, milord." Ramsay's face flushed nearly purple with the intensity of his sudden humiliation, but neither man afforded it notice as Rom continued, "We continued a strained observance of your requests and Ramsay has received what tutelage was scheduled for today, including a trip to see the servants and apologize for his past behaviors."

This part at least sounded somewhat redeeming, and Ramsay dared to relax slightly, hoping that it would set the tune for the entire report that he had decided to cooperate in the end. That hope dashed to pieces when he realized with perfect clarity why Rom had truly not interfered with his half-assed apology.

"Of course, Ramsay did not actually apologize, but rather went on to make a speech full of veiled threat and a decided lack of humility." Ramsay's hands squeezed the arms of his chair tightly as his jaw likewise locked up. He glanced over at Rom to see that the steward showed no sign of actual malice; he was simply reporting things exactly as they were like a good servant.

Roose shook his head and sighed at Ramsay, whose own blue eyes returned to his father, his body rigid with apprehension over what his father might do now that Ramsay was proven both unruly and just as much of a liar as when they had started. Roose probably didn't care that Ramsay lied to the servants, but he sure as hell wouldn't overlook Ramsay being fake to him.

The Warden had his steely gaze locked on Ramsay for some time, his hawkish features drawn into a look of severe disproval that Ramsay knew was his father deciding how to punish him. He could open his mouth and offer defense, but being as most of the problem was with Ramsay being a liar, Roose would never believe him over Rom.

No, that would only make matters even worse, further convincing Roose Bolton that his son was intractable, so instead Ramsay sat there with hands tightly held in his lap and eyes downcast, striking the perfect image of a properly penitent son whom was aware that there was nothing left but to accept what was coming to him.

To his surprise it was not Roose who spoke next though but instead Rom, "Would you like for me to do it, milord?"

Roose shook his head slowly, still glaring at Ramsay, "No. I think it needs to come from me. Perhaps if I hide him well enough this time he will start to take me a little more seriously. I'm convinced that he is simply thick-skulled and needs a heavier hand as encouragement to think things through, so could you lend me your belt, Steward?"

Ramsay's jaw dropped open as Rom rose immediately and casually removed the thick leather band from his waist, folding it in half and handing it to Roose. Roose tested the heavy leather against his own palm, nodding in satisfaction at the feel of it against his own flesh, "Yes, this will do nicely. Ramsay, come over here and place yourself over my lap."

There were many things Ramsay could do for the sake of a long con, but placing himself voluntarily into a position that would not only be humiliating but also terribly painful was where he had to draw the line, "I will most certainly not!" He splayed his hands to either side in a gesture of supplication, "Please father, can't we just talk about this? I am trying…"

His father rolled his eyes and motioned to Rom with an irritated gesture, "Put the boy in my lap; I'm already exasperated with these tired games."

With a surge of motion the steward moved from where he stood near Roose to where Ramsay sat, laying his hands on Ramsay and yanking him from his couch by his tunic before Ramsay could even open his mouth to object. As he struggled vainly to stop the thick servant from forcing him across the room he finally raised his voice in objection.

"Wait! Stop! This can't seriously be how you intend to resolve our differences every time you are unhappy with me?! Clearly if it worked you would not have to repeat it!"

His arms flailed and he groaned as Rom slowly levered him into Roose's lap, holding him easily and tightly into the vulnerable position his father had demanded. With a casual movement Roose pulled aside Ramsay's pants, baring his pale white buttocks to the air. This caused Ramsay to squirm even harder, knowing what came next.

He couldn't get free, though. With the combined efforts of both Roose and Rom, he had no chance of doing anything other than helpless resistance. Roose answered his statement with the belt before bothering with words, the whoosh of its passage through the air creating a keening sound just before the impact and sharp pain that followed.

"You are correct in that it seems corporal discipline seems to have failed so far, thus we shall take measures to make it increasingly uncomfortable for you. I have faith that this will render results. Or are you eager for the punishments I usually dole out for the sort of behavior you exhibit? Treating you like a child keeps you alive…"

Tears of pain formed within his eyes as Ramsay fought against the searing pain unlike anything he'd dealt with thus far. Roose was ruthless, and seemed not to care that the implement he wielded created far more pain than any simple use of a hand, striking Ramsay just as hard as or harder even than he would have with his palm alone.

His back arched and Ramsay let out one hiss and groan after another as he writhed helplessly in the grip of that mind-numbing pain. He had known it would be bad, but he had not imagined that it would be this bad. All the while as he panted, his hands splaying and clenching as his feet kicked Roose went on admonishing him.

"You'll learn to do as you're told, even if it's only to avoid an ever increasing punishment that will by no means become easier to bear. I don't even care if you are sincere, boy, just learn to avoid the lash enough to fall into some form of obedience and perhaps we can all learn to tolerate each other. Until then, you may look forward to much more of this."

Ramsay's muscles strained so much now that he was becoming tired with it, especially the small muscles of his lower back which promoted the arch in his spine, where he tried vainly to bend his body away from his continued punishments. Also his hips constantly twisted this way and that, but no matter how he moved his ass his father simply struck him unerringly again.

He would kick his feet up into the way in an attempt to block Roose's arm, but Rom seemed to have anticipated that and blocked his legs from the option with one bulky arm. So instead he made small kicks against the man's arm in a pathetic gesture of attempted escape from the suffering as his mind absorbed what Roose was threatening.

Back in the dungeon Roose had a servant count the number of times he had been struck, and Ramsay knew his father well enough to know that the warden made no idle threats about increasing the number of swats administered each time he was punished. Once again Ramsay found himself cursing his own stubbornness for setting the bar so high from the start.

He hadn't been counting, but he was certain that he was nowhere near such a lofty number, and panic clutched his heart as he cried out a little more fervently and desperately against the knowledge of what he was going to be forced to endure. In fact, he was so mollified by the notion that he forgot what resentment he still held and pleaded immediately.

"F-father, please. I understand now how serious you are. I-I won't question your resolve any further I promise! Please, forgive your foolish son his e-error!" He had to work to get the words out, not just because they stung what remained of the pride he had been attempting to restore, but because each swat Roose laid down caused his voice to jump and hitch.

Roose made a dismissive noise, seeming entirely focused on the red patch of tortured skin that he continued to pummel, Ramsay's ass jumping to the tune of his work, "Unfortunate for you that you have made such a name for yourself as a liar. If only your reputation was built on some form of code I might be convinced. As things stand I shall punish you thoroughly… and then we shall see how true your words ring."

Ramsay let out a frustrated, inarticulate scream at the finality in his father's voice. Roose promised no quarter, which Ramsay should have expected. And due to his own deceptive nature, absolutely nothing he could say would be sparing him from getting what he had earned.


	10. Surrender

Audio link:

<https://app.box.com/s/jlvtdl6wkbls2lxfm8npzh0i5wc1b2t4>

Chapter 10: Surrender

This terrible ordeal continued in relative silence for quite some time, the only sounds to permeate the room they all occupied the terrible slapping noise that Rom's belt made as it struck Ramsay's reddened flesh, and the gasping, subdued noises that emanated from Ramsay himself as he hissed and grunted in a very distressed manner.

Rom waited patiently with one hand folded neatly into the small of his back, the other grasping the rim of his pants, likely ensuring they did not slip from him as he stood there seeing as Roose had the belt he had been clasping them with. The foreign servant had the same calm, detached look on his face that he almost always seemed to wear.

Ramsay should probably be glad that Rom was expressing no joy or malice at the prospect of his most recent humiliation, but on the other side he found himself just as put off by the fact that Rom treated his suffering just as flippantly as any other mundane concern he had beheld. As if Ramsay's trials were beneath notice or worse; common place.

His breathing had become ragged against the strain of what he endured, and sweat beaded in neat rows upon his forehead as he struggled not to whimper or otherwise further lower himself beyond what hanging over his father's lap was already doing to him. His eyes stung with tears that he told himself were entirely the doing of the sharp pains that routinely assailed him.

At long last though the awful punishment at last came to a close, Ramsay literally gasping with relief when Roose handed the belt back to his servant. His body shook with all of the aches and pains that he accrued not only in being struck by his father but also in form of the stresses he had accumulated simply by being tensed for so very long.

Despite knowing that he should relax himself to best ride out his tribulation, Ramsay had found it entirely impossible to will himself to actually do so, and so he had spent almost the entire bout of his father's remand flexing many and sometimes even nearly all of the muscles in his buttocks, back, legs, arms and neck.

Now though he breathed gustily as if he had run a marathon, and though a terrible yield of pain still rang out from his swollen backside, the sharp notes of repeated punishment had at least finally halted. He could truly relax again, after what had felt like an age of suffering. He found himself wondering how it was that so crude a trick worked to such effect.

Sure, he had not been punished in the more conventional sense when he had been young, largely on account of each of his parents not bothering with the action of spanking their reckless, attention-seeking offspring. But he had played with so many ways of causing pain and worked to get his own tolerance for it quite high. So why did this bother him so much?

He was broken from his reverie by his father's voice as Roose Bolton motioned for him to rise, "Get up. I am going to hold out the slimmest hope that this will have finally been enough to set your errant course back to rights, but if not, as you know I have already laid the ground work for you to continue feeling the sting of similar corrections."

Ramsay kept his eyes upon the ground as he lifted himself from Roose's lap, his hands absently sliding down to rub at the crisscrossed pattern of welts and bruises upon his posterior. With one trembling arm he reached down to take hold of his pants and pulled them back into position as Rom stepped forward to retrieve his belt from the Warden.

After doing so the servant turned to Ramsay and gently nudged his arm, "Let us continue on to the last item I had planned for today young master." The Bolton heir lifted his eyes at last to glare at Rom, finding it incredibly difficult to keep the rampant emotion from his eyes. In the end he avoided saying anything at all in response to the steward.

Instead just returning his gaze to the floor, his jaw working as he thought over how very much he didn't want to do anything Rom suggested. At the same time, though, Ramsay was not at all keen on the idea of staying even another moment in his father's study. No matter how intently Roose Bolton looked upon his son, Ramsay did not make eye contact.

As repulsive as he found the idea of spending more time doing whatever it was that Rom wanted of him, he wanted to be where his father could see him even less, so he only nodded dully and followed as Rom quietly guided him away from the room. Roose said nothing as they exited, apparently having said all that he intended.

They walked in utter silence down the frosted halls of Winterfell for a short while before Ramsay began to discern where they were headed. The destination perked his curiosity a bit, but he was still feeling rather morose and definitely hateful towards the steward, so it took some time before he finally asked, "Why are we going to the crypt?"

Rom didn't face him as they walked, instead asking as he strode purposefully down the stairs that led down to the Stark family crypt. "It is a quiet place because it is one which few in this keep have reason to visit, making it an ideal place for reflection without distraction." As he stomped down the last few steps he turned to Ramsay.

As Ramsay also fully entered the somber entrance hall to the crypt proper Rom glanced aside in a fashion suggesting he wished the other man to follow and then walked further in. Ramsay's brow furrowed in confusion on what it could be that Rom had to show him here; there was nothing but the Stark dead interred in the place.

At last they seemed to reach their objective, because Rom drew up to a halt besides a particularly grand coffin complete with a statue of the person it contained standing over it. The coffins themselves were lacking any decoration as befit the frugal and efficiency oriented Starks, but that statue is where the opulence was that suggested the individual under had been a respected family leader.

Ramsay frowned, doing his best to guess who the image depicted, but the man set in stone was relatively young for a fallen lord, and Ramsay had not met any of the Starks beyond Sansa personally. So he assumed it would be someone that he would have heard of recently and jumped to conclusion, "Ned Stark?"

Rom nodded sagely, "Yes. This is indeed the final resting place of Lord Eddard Stark, noted leader of the great family that until only recently inhabited this very keep. His body was graciously interred here after his untimely death at the hands of Joffery Lannister."

Ramsay scoffed in reply to Rom's statement, "Have you come here to make a speech on the importance of avoiding failures then? This fool doomed himself and his entire family over a handful of outdated beliefs. If he had just wizened up and kept his head down he could have continued on as Hand to Joffery. Hell, I've even heard that he could have had the throne itself when he and Robert won their insurrection if he hadn't had his head so far up his ass."

This elicited a shaking head from Rom, whom replied evenly, "The Lord Stark did not desire the Iron Throne, instead preferring the peace of Winterfell and the company of his family as I hear it. Also, it should be noted that Eddard sacrificed himself to save his children whom yet remained within King's Landing by throwing himself upon Joffery's mercy as he did."

The quiet hall resounded with the otherwise loud noise as Ramsay snorted dramatically to this, "Oh and what a sound plan it was to put himself under that little monster's chopping block… he didn't save anyone! He son rode into battle over and it and got himself and Ned's wife slain, effectively ending his family line. His youngest daughter is most likely dead…"

"Yet Sansa lives." Rom stared as Ramsay flinched and then averted his eyes.

"S-she hardly counts. Bitch likely froze out in the cold somewhere between here and the Wall…"

Rom was already shaking his head, "Your father's scouts report that she has made it to the safety of the Watch." He took in how Ramsay blanched at this comment before continuing, "That is not the topic of this particular discussion though; the troubles between House Stark and House Bolton are not why we are down here."

Ramsay curled back a lip in an unpleasant snarl, "Yes, you wanted to regale me with Ned Stark's failures… I'm sure because you are attempting to draw some similarity between what led that man to his death and what I've been doing."

Yet again Rom shook his head, "No. I want you to consider Eddard not because he failed to stay alive but because he succeeded in putting his family first. Despite all of the things that have been stacked against House Stark, one betrayal after another, they are still not completely defeated. He raised children who are loyal to one another and for this reason your father must now consider Jon Snow."

A barely perceptible twitch worked at the corner of Ramsay's mouth, "Jon Snow? Why in the Seven would father care about him? I already gave father some rather tidy ways to…"

"…Make the mater worse. Yes, your father informed me already of your ill-conceived notions concerning having Jon murdered. I believe he also mentioned that he already rebuffed that poor plan of action."

Ramsay's mouth became a tight line of irritation and it was everything he could do to remember that he was at least pretending to get along with this servant whom he planned to murder very slowly someday.

So instead of saying something that might cross the line from sarcasm and mild argument into something that might be construed as outright rebelliousness, he went quiet. Rom waited a moment, and when it became clear that Ramsay wasn't going to retort he went on, "I thought we would focus less on the threat that Jon Snow might present, though."

He gestured to the statue of Eddard Stark, "Instead, I want us to focus on the virtue of familial fealty. The Starks are and have always been a wonderful example of the virtues that many of the great Houses are supposed to uphold within the members of the nobility that make up their court. Many Houses have fallen short on one virtue or the other through the ages."

The foreigner glanced at Ramsay, as if checking to see that he was still paying attention before continuing his thought, "This is a human thing to do. The Houses that last do so because they pride themselves on holding these virtues, so as to cement themselves among the people of Westeros. The Lannisters played on that thought wisely with their family motto concerning debts. "

Ramsay folded his arms over his chest and pointedly looked away; he knew where this soapbox speech was going, and he didn't have to pretend that he cared or even enjoyed having to hear it. Sure enough, Rom proved him right with his next words, "Virtues that have to a one been completely lacking in your own exploits, young lord."

A disgruntled rasp of a noise passed between Ramsay's lips as he waved a hand dismissively at Rom, "What, am I to emulate my proud father's humility? Or perhaps you are going to say that I should follow his lead in being loyal… I doubt that Rob Stark would agree with such a sentiment, nor any of the rest of the North for that matter."

Rom held up a single finger, his expression calm and patient, "Your father betrayed his oaths, and for that he pays with a thousand pains concerning the others Houses and both how they perceive him and how they react to him. If you are going to use your father for a model, however, I ask you to observe instead his familial loyalty; here he has never faltered."

Ramsay grimaced, clearly unconvinced, but Rom went on, "He has never betrayed anyone related to him or whom works for him. In fact, despite the fact that doing so would almost certainly create a problematic scandal, Lord Roose Bolton spared a bastard child simply by the merit that the baby was of his own blood."

This stirred old resentments and confusions within Ramsay's heart. His father had regaled him with the story of how he had decided not to end baby Ramsay's life due to the fact that he had possessed his own eyes. Rom spoke again before he could summon a response, though, "As terrible an atrocity as slaying an infant would be I dare say most lords would not bat an eye at it…"

The foreign servant turned his gaze to the statue again, "Not your father, though. And not Lord Eddard Stark, whom spared a baby Jon Snow despite knowing that bringing the young bastard into his home would not sit well at all with his family. He put his bloodline before he own personal reputation, a large step for a man whom had a reputation as untarnished as his own."

Rom moved to stand closer to Ramsay, his large brown eyes staring into Ramsay's puzzled blue ones as he spoke in a voice as soft and gentle as the flickering candlelight that adorned the solemn halls of that crypt, "The Starks might for all intents be defeated by the Boltons, but if the Boltons are to survive they must be more united than their enemies, not less so."

Ramsay huffed, being sure to let Rom see that he was annoyed with this particular grandstanding, "I've already made clear that I intend to be cooperative… there is no need to continue with the melodrama concerning my past actions; I don't intend to betray my father again. I have by all accounts learned my lesson on the matter."

Rom raised an eyebrow, "By all accounts…"

This obviously sarcastic and open-ended comment ruffled Ramsay a bit. It didn't do to have Rom so blatantly inform him that he knew his façade of interest in reformation was total bullshit. Still, he knew that these things took time. While Rom would likely never trust him any more than his father would, over time he would become complacent; everyone did.

So instead Ramsay just harrumphed and folded his arms across his chest, pretending to study the statue as if he gave a damn about foolish old Ned Stark. At long last Rom seemed to decide that the uncomfortable silence had gone on long enough and the servant took in a deep breath, folding his hands behind his back.

"In any case, I just wanted to let you have the opportunity to have someone other than your father espouse the benefits of the virtue of familial loyalty. Perhaps now you will hopefully find time to ruminate on the nature of what it is to put the family first and therefore be all the stronger for it. This is enough for today; let us retreat to your rooms."

Ramsay grumbled a bit at the feeling that he was being led around rather than actually having a choice in where he went, but he didn't allow his mumbling to become actual words. There would be time to air all of his grievances to Rom one day whilst Ramsay slowly eviscerated him. That would be far more gratifying; they did say delayed gratification was best.

The return trip passed uneventfully and Ramsay started to settle into a firm routine in the days that followed. Many times he had to work very hard to avoid upsetting his own plans of playing along with his father's plans, since both Rom and his father felt no need to pull punches when it came to speaking frankly about his… situation.

But with a massive exertion of willpower Ramsay triumphed over his own desires to act impulsively, a matter that his father noted and even praised him on. Ramsay spent the next few nights having trouble sleeping for his thoughts on that simple accolade. His father did not dole out praise readily, and Ramsay had been surprised by his own reaction to it.

On one hand, it had made him a little angry to be told that he was being a good, obedient dog. On the other though he couldn't deny the warm feeling in the center of his being he had gotten to see his father smile at him and hear words of genuine affection. Ramsay had spent most of his life wanting that sort of thing after all.

He told himself time and again that it was far too late for him and Roose Bolton to start playing at happy family, but nonetheless the feeling kept returning each and every time he thought on his father's simple but meaningful words. Most of the time he just did his best to put it out of his mind and stay focused on whatever task Rom had for him.

For the most part these tasks involved listening to either Rom, the Maester, or some doddering old fool or the other as his reeducation continued. Rom was quite earnest in giving him and even more thorough schooling than he had received when he'd been a preteen, and Ramsay found the whole affair quite dull, though he had to admit there was a lot he clearly missed the first time around.

Thankfully it wasn't all ballroom etiquette and history lessons; Rom brought him out to the yard daily to spar with the best warriors the Bolton army had to offer. The smug foreigner often had Ramsay fight at disadvantage too, either unarmed or outnumbered, but despite the fact that he got his ass kicked regularly, Ramsay relished the opportunity to inflict pain even as he took it.

He was brought before his father routinely, and to his greatest of reliefs, Rom's reports on his progress remained systematically positive. This kept Ramsay from having to endure any more debilitating humiliations and 'punishments', as well as giving the Bolton bastard a solid feeling that he was getting steadily closer to convincing his father to trust him again.

At least enough to make all of this stop, thought Ramsay. He would likely never trust his son not to try to elevate himself again via patricide, but at least one day Roose will have to be satisfied that Ramsay had enough 'reeducation' and send Rom back to whatever dark corner of the world that the foreign servant had crawled out from to make Ramsay's life miserable.

When Ramsay was summoned to his father's side, he thought that perhaps that was exactly what was about to transpire, but instead he got a different sort of revelation. "Ramsay, I have long considered our Stark problem and all of our other problems that are connected to it. Today a runner informed me that we have Rickon Stark. He shall be delivered here within the week."

A wide smile immediately spread across Ramsay's features, "That's wonderful news, father! We can use the boy to lure Jon Snow here and murder him!"

Ramsay froze as he took in the stony expression that Roose regarded this comment with in addition to his clear lack of response.

"Er… alright, you don't want to risk confrontation with the Night's Watch, should they decide to avenge their murdered Lord Commander. So how about we demand that Jon step down from that prestigious rank first then… maybe tell him that if he does not vacate his post and betray his vows to the Watch in addition to delivering my wife back to me…"

"You'll what?" Roose interrupted, his tone clearly indicating that he was not in the least agreeable with Ramsay's plan of action, "Do you plan on threatening the heir to their House? Perhaps you will send them pieces of the boy as you did with Theon Greyjoy? Do you have any idea how quickly the other Houses would side with Jon if you did that?"

Ramsay's face paled a bit and he stood rigidly upright as he father strode over to speak to him very closely, the older man's ice blue eyes burning with irritation, "No, I think you've made enough of a mess of things. I wasn't calling you here for council, but to inform you of my own plans concerning our acquisition of the Stark heir."

His son frowned and averted his gaze as Roose went on, "I will be taking young Rickon to the Wall personally to parlay with what remains of the House we betrayed."

Ramsay sputtered, "You're what?! We have their heir… all that remains otherwise in a single daughter and a bastard! He might be Lord Commander of the Watch but the Watch is composed of criminals and fugitives… they aren't going to betray their vows to march all the way here and fight for some bastard who has no gold to offer them in return!"

Roose shrugged, "Maybe. Maybe he is unable to convince the Watch to march. That still leaves a formidable force of Wildlings that my scouts have reported him commanding north of the wall. His sister is no male heir but that won't keep her from tugging at the bonds that have bound the Houses of the North to the Starks for a thousand years."

He stabbed a finger into Ramsay's chest, causing the younger man to back up a step, "Together they could marshal every living person who isn't a Bolton against us and we would be facing the largest siege ever recorded in the history of Westeros, or which we would stand no chance of surviving. Our line will end here in this foreign castle, and we'll go down as a lesson to future generations of why you don't piss off the entirety of the North!"

Ramsay's teeth grated against one another and his face flushed in the heat of his father's scathing reprimand, but with some amount of effort he managed at last to once more make eye contact with the other man. "A-alright. I can see you are convinced of their threat. So how do we get more from parlay? Wouldn't that send the message that we think them in a position to bargain?"

The Warden's eyes narrowed in continued annoyance, "That's what I have been attempting to express to you for weeks, boy. They ARE in a position to bargain. We do not yet know how much they know, but if they have even an inkling of patience and understanding, then they may well already be aware that they are in a position of strength."

Ramsay had taken to turning from his father's scolding gaze, so Roose reached out and took hold of him by the lapel of his coat, forcing the younger Bolton to face him as he continued with his reproach, "We are surrounded; literally surrounded! We could not even retreat west to our homelands if we so desired. There are several Houses that could stop our movement!"

Ramsay's mouth stood agape; he couldn't believe what his father was suggesting, "You are debating retreat?"

Roose shook his head slightly, "Not yet, no. But only a fool runs blindly forward into a fight without knowing whether or not he can back away."

The Warden shook an accusatory finger at Ramsay, "You would commit every resource to a war without consideration for failure and that is why you would likely end our family line in a single battle lost. I've asked Rom to have you consider this during your retraining, so tell me Ramsay; do you understand why I must consider retreat?"

Ramsay shrugged noncommittally, "You must put the family first, to ensure it survives you should things go sideways?"

Calm descended over Roose's face and he nodded sagely, for the first time seeming satisfied with what Ramsay had to say. "Correct. You might think it cowardly to consider retreat, or that I am planning to fail by considering my own defeat, but only a fool thinks his every plan infallible, and while it might seem victory here and now is all important, it pales compared the potential of our extinction as a House."

Ramsay frowned, "I have the feeling all of this is a setup to tell me something even more unpleasant."

A slight smirk crossed Roose's features. Was he… proud that Ramsay had come to that conclusion? Amused perhaps? "I don't just plan to negotiate with the Starks; tomorrow we travel to the Wall to surrender."


	11. Impertinence

Audio chapter:

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Chapter 11: Impertinence

Ramsay had almost managed to extricate his jaw from the floor by the time that they finished making preparations to travel north the next day. His father had stood by and observed his wordless shock for a few moments after delivering his surprising decision that flew in the face of everything he knew about his father Roose Bolton.

Then the Warden of the North, a position he would be abandoning shortly with the implementation of his surrender to his enemies, turned and told Rom to see Ramsay off and have him fitfully prepared for the long trek ahead. Winter had begun to extend its steely claws into the lands of the North as it had not done in many years, and even such a simple journey was now perilous.

They would have to traverse frozen ground and make time against the freezing weather lest they run afoul of a blizzard severe enough make sleeping out in the open a deadly venture. Fortunately men of the North were well accustomed for such severe circumstances, and being as it was the head of the family every effort would be made to protect Roose and his son.

Ramsay looked out at the gathering men with a dour expression that he had been wearing for some time plastered across his face. As he watched gear was placed upon horses that stamped restlessly at the hard earth in front of the massive wooden gate that was the entrance to Winterfell. Voices could be heard all over as men rushed to comply with Roose’s command quickly while being sure they were adequately prepared.

It was cold. Colder even than Ramsay was even used to despite having lived in the North his entire life. The Maester had said that a winter this cold only came through once every hundred years. How fortunate that he and his father were going to be traveling through it for some distance. All this time they had been here and only now father decides to travel…

He mused and groused this way for a few minutes until he realized that Rom had quietly joined him, the man surprisingly light-footed for someone his size to have approached unnoticed. The servant gestured to the throng of horses, provisions and riders, “We leave soon. Is there anyone you would like to say goodbye to?”

This brought a surly frown to Ramsay’s face; was Rom mocking him? The only person that Ramsay might have considered to be a “friend” had been Myranda, and the Kennel Master’s daughter had been thrown to her death from the walls of the keep by the traitorous Theon Greyjoy, someone else whom had not been a real friend, some time ago.

It wasn’t often that Ramsay was faced with the fact that he didn’t actually share real comradery with anyone, and as always, doing so made him stiffen up and grow somber. He gritted his teeth at Rom but closed his mouth, choking back a spiteful reply. He had finally seemed to regain some fraction of his father’s trust; he couldn’t go ruining it by chewing out the help again.

So instead he quietly set aside the gnawing irritation that plagued him and focused instead on getting up onto his horse. It was going to be a long, hard ride, but the greatest if perhaps the only perk was going to be in the weather itself keeping conversation down to a minimum due to whipping winds and all the noise such a large throng of riders was going to generate.

Ramsay didn’t really see Rom as the type to shout in order to be heard, and he took that as a quiet blessing. It took a while for the Warden of the North to actually grace them with his presence so they could leave, so Ramsay filled his time with patting and stroking the warm fur of the horse underneath him, less because he gave a damn for the horse and more because it helped warm himself.

Finally the Bolton Lord made his way among their ranks and mounted his own prepared horse, saying nothing as he had her canter to the gate as soldiers rushed to take their own positions in the flanking formation that they would be marching in to protect the master of their Family from threats on the road, whatever those might be.

The ride was just as melancholy and tedious as Ramsay had expected it too, and camping in the freezing cold had been even less enjoyable, but they weren’t snowed off of the roads and only one soldier suffered injuries due to frostbite, likely because the fool didn’t take enough precautions to keep himself warm.

At last though they finally found themselves pulling up to an object of human design amidst the curtain of falling snow. A man toward the front barked out that they were approaching a guard tower for the Night’s Watch, one of the few that dotted the south side of the Wall. It wasn’t manned, and as they passed it he saw that the wood and stone building appeared in disuse.

The Watch had not had the numbers they once did back closer to the time of the inception of that order. From all accounts that his father had relayed to him, and from his own spies, they had dwindled down to no more than a few hundred, if that even that many now walked those emptied halls. The reason for their establishment was considered a fairy tale after all.

As far as most of the lords of Westeros were concerned, the Night King had been either greatly exaggerated of completely nonexistent. Far more of the peoples of Westeros than not wrote off the White Walkers as nothing more than the product of wishful maesters whom wanted to seem possessed of stories more interesting than their usual bland ones.

A clarion call sounded through the frigid air and their group came to a halt. Ramsay knew why; even through the relentless onslaught of snow flurries he could detect the great shadow of the Wall that seemed to rise to the very pinnacle of the heavens. He had heard that Wall to be over seven hundred feet tall; it certainly looked it.

From between those craggy outcroppings a voice manifested itself from atop a perch built into the wooden gate that allowed access to the Keep that was entrenched within the very stone and ice of the Wall itself. Ramsay’s eyes searched for a moment in all the white gloom until at last he saw the speaker; an older man with a wiry mustache and greying hair on his balding pate.

“Who are ye, and what business does a lord have at the Wall?”

Roose did not answer the bellowing sentry directly, of course; he had a crier for that. The man elected to speak for the Warden did so passionately, his voice stained with irritation, “You know perfectly well whose banner this is you ponce! Open the fucking gate and allow entry to Roose Bolton, Warden of the North, lest you’re saying you mean to bar us entry.”

The Northman atop the wall grimaced at the ugly but honest words used to counter his obvious question, and stepped out of view. Apparently he and those with him decided it would be best to allow Roose and his guard in, as the wooden gates began to swing open shortly thereafter to grant them admittance to Castle Black.

Ramsay felt like there were a hundred eyes upon them as they slowly drove their train of horses through the large courtyard that the Watch used both as a common place and a training ground for their soldiers. Men stood in doorways and upon the many wooden boardwalks that ran the length of both the outer walls of the keep and the Wall itself, watching with expressions hard and unreadable. Did they think Roose meant to attack Jon? Did they already consider themselves enemies of the Boltons?

Very likely they did. Ramsay tensed a little at the thought that there could very well be a setup waiting for the unwanted Warden and his entourage that resembled the ambush Rob Stark had walked into during the Red Wedding. This far into Castle Black there was no real hope for the men Roose had brought along to be of much help.

A few well-placed arbalests or archers within the confines of the meeting hall would be more than enough to mow down what resistance those men could muster, and then it would be simple for a hundred men of the Watch and gods knew how many wildlings to rip apart what remained of the Bolton force.

Ramsay wondered idly what sort of death they would give his father, as the man whom had betrayed and murdered old Ned’s firstborn son. Not that he would likely be getting a quick death either, he thought morbidly; Sansa was supposed to still be here, and as the last remaining Stark of pure blood she would certainly have a say in and a wish for his suffering.

His brow crinkled as he thought on this, a lanky man with dark hair that narrowly framed his face meeting them as they approached the double doors to the meeting hall. As that man greeted Roose in a stiff way that suggested he wasn’t comfortable speaking to people of rank, Ramsay considered how boring their deaths would actually be; Starks had a penchant for predictability.

He wasn’t allowed to mull over the dismal thought line any longer though, as it became clear that they were actually being allowed an audience with Jon Snow within the hall beyond, and Ramsay could now focus on nothing more than scanning the place for his escaped nemesis. He hadn’t considered Sansa such before, of course.

But then she had just kept on trying to escape, despite all of the reasons he kept giving her to submit, until she had gone and done it; escaped. The first of Ramsay’s victims to ever manage to do so, though he had to admit that was largely in part his own fault for greatly underestimating both her resolve and her boldness.

Not only did she escape, though; she had taken his favorite pet! Reek had been a masterpiece, and Ramsay had become so very fond of him, and the little Stark harlot had used her underhanded wiles to somehow turn him on Ramsay! To top all of that off and the masterstroke that had landed her as a true enemy had been when she’d had Reek kill Miranda.

No one actually saw it happen, of course; the guard had found Miranda’s corpse in the courtyard, and the Maester said that the cause of death seemed to be a fall from the castle wall above. But Ramsay had no doubt at all in his mind that Sansa had somehow wormed her way into Reek’s head, and probably asked him to do it. Poor Reek, he had probably cried through the whole thing.

Thinking of Reek almost brought a smile to Ramsay’s mouth, except that such thoughts were always rapidly followed by the realization that humble little Reek had betrayed him, souring the smile into an ugly grimace. Regardless of whether Sansa had influenced him, Reek had murdered sweet Myranda, and Ramsay could never forgive him for that.

Such musings were pushed aside as Ramsay’s eyes finally found what they had been seeking as he and Roose entered the relatively small meeting hall. There was a large simple oak table in the center of the room, at which stood Jon Snow, several men that Ramsay did not recognize including a massive red-headed man whose garb marked him a wildling.

And then there was Sansa, staring at Ramsay with a decidedly unreadable expression. For his part Ramsay spread out a wide smile for her upon meeting eyes, making sure that she could see mirth in his face, as if their meeting was between two dear old friends, “Sansa, my wife! I have missed you so since you left… you know, Winterfell is a shithole, but somehow this place is even worse; you really haven’t traded up.”

“Ramsay you will quiet yourself and speak only when spoken to.” Roose’s words hit Ramsay like a punch to the gut. He’d done more than just told him to shut up; Ramsay was thoroughly surprised that Roose saw fit to demean his own son in front of their enemies. He ground his teeth and balled his fists, taking a long moment to rein himself in from the heated feeling such a public display caused.

Jon Snow had reacted immediately, leaning forward and looking as if he were about to say something as a dark look crossed his eyes, but Roose’s quick interjection seemed to give him pause and he relaxed back to a brooding look as he waited for the lank man whom had led the Warden in to announce everyone by their proper titles.

After this was done they were asked by the Watchman to sit, and Roose did so immediately, showing his usual perfunctory grace concerning decorum. As soon as the lord sat his entourage followed suit, Ramsay sitting last as he had still been lingering both in action and feeling over his father ruining the perfect entrance he had set up.

Sansa herself seemed to take Ramsay’s insult in stride, only perking up at Roose’s interjection. She had seen his father scold him for his behavior on numerous occasions, but never had he denied Ramsay the common right to speak. Ramsay seethed that she might find amusement in what had just happened; it did seem as if her lips had quirked into the faintest of smiles.

Jon didn’t waste any time; the moment his retinue were seated and he had placed himself in his own seat at the head of the table he addressed Roose, “Why are you here Warden Roose Bolton? I already sent the raven requesting aid from your House concerning volunteers needed for the defense of Castle Black. This visit seems unmerited.”

Roose didn’t seem to let Jon’s dissonant attitude bother him one bit, instead replying simply, “My family and the Starks are at something of an impasse due to recent events, and since you are harboring the last of that noble line, I thought it prudent to visit seeing as we have some unfinished business to attend to, she and I.”

Jon’s mien became a fearsome one immediately, and he glared daggers at the Bolton lord as he grit his teeth with ill-kept resentment, “I remind the Lord Bolton that I am even less a man of House Stark now that I have taken the Black than I was as a bastard of that House, but the Watch will still not stand by if you are attempting to abduct someone we have given asylum.”

The Warden raised his hands up into the air palm forward in a manner that was commonly known to be a placating gesture, “No, no… we are not here to take Sansa Stark under duress but rather to offer her restitution for the damages our family has bestowed upon her own, and offer her the right to reclaim her home.”

Even though he had known this was coming, Ramsay’s jaw still dropped as much as Sansa and Jon’s did. He couldn’t believe his father was actually going through with it. As affirmation that he had in fact heard what he thought he had Roose continued, “I have come to understand better how the Houses have relied on the Starks, regardless of what I may have once believed of them as a House, which was why I tried a peaceful marriage alliance with the Lady Stark.”

“On seeing that marriage fail, I wish to return Winterfell to the Starks, and to remove myself and mine back to the Dread Fort, so that we may in some way return to some semblance of normalcy for the North. The unrest has been mounting, and now that I have been in the position of Warden, I can see that the Starks are needed in some semblance to keep the peace.”

Jon Snow’s eyes widened, which amused Ramsay greatly, but his joy in seeing the Lord Commander’s surprise was somewhat dimmed by the smirk that Sansa wore upon hearing the same news. She couldn’t possibly have anticipated the news, but rather than be awed by the about face turn Roose had taken, she was clearly amused by it.

Ramsay growled deep in his throat as his anger began to build. What was Sansa thinking, that this was somehow inevitable or perhaps fitting? Jon spoke next, forcing himself visibly to relax enough to continue the conversation, “Do you think me a fool Roose Bolton? Would Sansa Stark even survive the journey if I were to send her with you to ‘reclaim her keep’?”

The leather making up the gauntlets that covered Jon’s hands creaked as he clenched his fists, his dark eyes full of righteous anger, “All of the North is well aware of the sort of things you can get up to. No one here trusts you nor shall we likely ever do so again. I would tell any other lord of Westeros that I mean no disrespect with such a statement but for you there is no respect to merit beyond what I must.”

An older man standing behind and to the right of Jon spoke very softly to the Lord Commander, but due to the tense silence that permeated the room in the wake of his statement everyone could hear him clearly, “Careful, Jon…”

Every soldier in the room was wide of eye and tight of muscle, with more than a few hands laid upon the hilts of their swords.

Roose’s men were outnumbered, but in such tight confines that fact was mitigated greatly. A pitched battle would descend into a chaos of which only uncertainty was certain. Ramsay could see it in every face present; they all still wondered if Roose wasn’t here on some insane mission to assassinate the Lord Commander to get at the last title-holder of his rival House.

Or if Jon hadn’t just incited him to do just that with his clear stance as an opponent. Roose sighed and leaned back into his seat, “I am not here to apologize to you or anyone else for what I did. Rob Stark was a fool who was dragging the entirety of the North into a losing battle over a feud with the Lannisters. He cut down his own loyal bannerman whose only crime was to slay the enemy he had chosen…”

“They were boys, slaughtered while still bound…!” Jon started to stand but a look from Sansa seemed to give him pause, and he slowly seated himself again, his eyes burning with his clear disdain for what Roose had to say about Rob. He glanced over at the older man whom had spoken before, whom gave him a reassuring look.

It was the Warden’s turn to project anger, Roose’s voice filled with vehemence as he continued, “He then went on to break his word concerning a marriage alliance with the Frey’s for no other reason than it did not suit him, but of course after he had accepted that House’s generous war contributions and let those Frey men bleed out upon the battlefield for his broken oaths.”

Jon worked hard to control himself, a fact that everyone could see, his mouth practically turning to a snarl as he spoke, the whole of the room remaining tightly wound, “You butchered him and his pregnant wife at a wedding meant to mend those broken oaths… in treachery you accepted patronage from the Lannisters for the title you coveted!”

A few swords came loose in their sheaths as Roose roared back at him, the air between the two men filled with animosity so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. “Your half-brother led us towards ruin, proving time and again that his own personal interests outweighed his concern for what was best for the people who fought for him. I wanted to avenge your father too, we all did, but enough is enough!”

“I won’t claim that what we and the Frey’s did was not underhanded, but our assassination saved countless lives in what would have otherwise been a civil war that the North could not afford, especially locked in battle with the South as we already were. I was loyal to Rob Stark, I am only more loyal to the survival of the North.”

There was a lull in the tension, everyone trying to guess what Jon might say to Roose’s version of things, but the Warden spoke before the Lord Commander could reply, “I understand that everyone saw what I did as a grab for power, and that did not bother me, as at the time I thought I could fix things by my own hand here in the North.”

He pointed at Sansa then, “But I soon realized the vast hole left by the Starks, and how difficult it was going to be for the other Houses to see things my way. As I mentioned, marriage was my first thought. I could have executed Sansa when she was last at Winterfell, but I have never had quarrel with her House; my quarrel died with Rob Stark.”

“Let me pull my forces from Winterfell, and you may march the whole of your armies into it to preserve the safety of the Lady Sansa Stark if it pleases you. I would understand entirely if she does not wish to have us escort her personally back to her abode.” His pale blue eyes turned to Sansa, “My son blundered your marriage entirely, and I do not expect you to honor your vows to a botched union.”

Ramsay choked on nothing, his eyes widening as he suddenly reared forward; this had not been part of the plan! His fists clenched atop the wooden table and he only distantly heard Roose’s next words over the thrumming blood in his ears caused by his sudden intense humiliation over his father’s words, not to mention that he was just letting Sansa go, just like that!

“Hopefully returning Winterfell to the Starks as a House peacefully will prove both my earnest sincerity in word as well as deed, but also give merit to you and the rest of the North at last that I did not do what I did simply to gain power over my fellow countrymen. I…”

Roose’s next words were cut off by Ramsay, whom had been stewing in the emotional turmoil of losing Sansa after everything else, “Surely we are still wed… let’s not be too hasty; vows were taken and you Starks hold vows sacred don’t you?” His blue eyes sought out Sansa. She glared back at him, her mouth a hard line as Jon’s angry glare redirected his way.

Neither of them got the chance to speak, though, as it was Roose’s harsh voice that echoed out next, “You were told to speak when spoken to, Ramsay. After all the harm you have done, do you seek to muck things up here as well? Rom, take him from the room…” Ramsay was doubly surprised, both by the reprimand and by Rom’s strong hands gripping him tightly and flinging him from his seat.

Clearly Roose thought that this tidied the matter up nicely, as he was already turning in his seat to address the remaining Starks again as Rom bullied Ramsay away from the table with an inexorable push. Rage rose to Ramsay’s head like a wave at being so thoroughly and easily dismissed before he had even made his argument.

He snarled, a sadistic smile covering his face as he continued to shout at Sansa; Rom would make him leave, but at least he would have his last word! “Did you tell your brother about all of the fun we have had? My father wants to give you back your keep, but you can never remove the mark I have made upon you; you are mine!”

Both of Roose’s hands slammed into the table and Rom stopped where he was, tightly holding the suddenly quiet Ramsay as all present took in the open fury in the Warden’s face as he rose slowly from the table to stand. The anger disappeared from his face as quickly as it had surfaced, as if wiped away, and he nodded calmly to Jon Snow.

“It appears I need to have words with my son immediately. His disrespect both for you and this council has been noted and shall be corrected without delay; I wouldn’t want you to think I would tolerate such insult, regardless of its source. Please excuse me while I do so, Lord Commander; I won’t keep you waiting overly long.”

Jon was clearly still a bit tense over the sensitive topics they had thus far broached, but all could see that his resentment was tempered if not downright overthrown by his confusion and curiosity concerning the sudden antics of one Ramsay Bolton. They had been surprised when Roose had commanded his silence before, but no one expected such conflict within the House.

Sansa’s own eyes followed their movement as Roose, Rom, Ramsay and a few of Roose’s soldiers stepped back out of the Hall, noting that Roose stopped to quietly ask the man that had greeted them, whom Sansa knew to be a friend of Jon’s from the Watch, if they could use an empty room for their private discussion.

She had seen Ramsay and his father butt heads plenty when she had attempted to regain control of Winterfell through union with Ramsay, but never had seen Ramsay so mollified. He looked… nervous. He didn’t object or say anything snarky; he just… stood there with the servant Roose had called Rom gripping him by the bicep tightly.

The fact that Roose was seeking somewhere to have their conversation in secret was also unfamiliar to her; Roose Bolton had a habit of wearing his mind on his sleeve and stating what he felt or thought openly. She very much wanted to know what it was both that had Ramsay acting so strangely, and whatever it was that Roose didn’t wish to express to the room.

They moved briskly now, Rom pushing Ramsay ahead as the thin waifish looking man led them to the private room they had requested. Ramsay was both glad that the request had been granted because he wasn’t certain what Roose might have done publicly and unhappy about what was perhaps going to transpire next.

It became much less of a ‘perhaps’ as they entered the small room and Roose made a command almost before the Watchman had even stepped clear of hearing distance, “Take his pants down and bend him over that table.” Ramsay’s eyes widened as Rom went about the task immediately, apparently having expected such a command.

He resisted, shoving against the thick servant as Rom’s meaty hands hauled his trousers down to his knees, binding his knees and making it even easier for the foreign man to shove him over onto the table exactly as Roose had commanded, Ramsay landed with an ‘Oof!’ upon his stomach as he protested, “Wait, t-the door… someone will hear!”

Meanwhile Roose had been removing his own belt, advancing on Ramsay in a menacing fashion as he folded the thick leather over double within his grip, his intent clear beyond doubt. Ramsay shouted, his panic surfacing; they were moving so fast, he couldn’t think! “W-we are surrounded by enemies, you said it yourself… you can’t do this here!”

Roose grimaced as he glared at his son, “That is where you are wrong; it is you who seems to forget both where we are and whom surrounds you.” He lifted his fist and brought the leather cracking down upon Ramsay’s backside, causing the younger man to jump hard against Rom’s restraining arms as the servant pinned him to the table.

“You also seem to forget almost every word that was told to you pending this meeting and its importance. You are a spoiled, forgetful child whom shall once more have to be reminded of his place, even here in this dangerous environ, because you are that damned impertinent. How many lashes do you think I should add to get the point across this time, Rom?”

Ramsay was gasping for air as his body squirmed about the table, unable for all of his tensing and flexing to make even the slightest headway against Rom’s powerful grip or to evade Roose’s accurate, piercing swats. The Warden brought the lash down hard in an even stride, fast enough to not allow Ramsay the slightest period for adjustment but slow enough for him to have time to fear the next strike.

The sound of the belting rang out loudly through the room, seeming to echo eternally through the walls of Castle Black to Ramsay’s ears, clearly forceful enough to be a clarion call through every hall the keep boasted, surely singing out what was happening to Ramsay for every single soul that resided within to hear.

The door was still open! Did his father not care that this increased the chance for others to hear what happened within? Ramsay’s eyes played over the doorway again, widening as this time he observed that they were not alone. A young woman in a simple brown dress with short ruddy flaxen hair stared in at him curiously, dashing away the moment it was clear that she had been seen.

“F-father, wait! S-someone saw, there was someone at the door!” He cried out, his voice strained both with the rigors of his continued endured punishments and with the rising humiliation he felt as he mind took what had just happened and ran away with it within his own imagination. Soon all would know, including Sansa!

Roose did not so much as pause, his relentless storm of administered swats continuing to rain down upon Ramsey’s reddening cheeks without the slightest hesitation. “Then they saw. Doing this in private was a matter of decorum, but I care little if the council that Jon Snow keeps becomes aware of what you suffer here.”

Ramsay tried to twist but Rom’s steady hands blocked this maneuver without effort, forcing Ramsay to cry out over his own shoulder. The pain was becoming unbearable now, but he knew that Roose was far from done, given the doubling that always occurred when he received a new punishment. He tried to push that from his mind in vain.

“I-It weakens the respect given our family for you to treat your grown son this way! P-please, they will never credit our family with what we deserve once I have taken the reins if this is how our business is paraded about! I-it is one thing to do this at home, but rumor will hold much more sway if it is sourced here!”

The warden snarled down at Ramsay as he gave him a very hard swat, causing Ramsay to jump and cry out loudly, no longer able to restrain himself to simple hisses and grunts as the powerful strapping Roose gave him left him screaming in agony as his tortured rear squirmed in vain against a fate he could not avoid.

“You want to speak about deserving? This is exactly what you deserve, you sniveling little conniver. You aren’t interested in the legacy of House Bolton; you only try to save your hide from the very punishment you have brought upon your own head. If you are a laughing stock it’ll be because you made yourself such.”

Roose’s ire seemed to grow, and with it the acute sting applied by his well-placed strikes across the arch of Ramsay’s ass, causing Ramsay to loose himself to a fit of sobbing as at last he was pushed past what he could endure, his voice ringing out calls for mercy as his father continued to scold him, “I won’t protect you from yourself anymore boy!”

“If you gave a damn about our House you’d help instead of hinder me as I try to clean up…” the next two swats were intensely powerful, causing Ramsay to yelp twice as his back arched up to buck away from the pain he couldn’t escape, “…your mess! You’ve made peace all but impossible with the Starks and as things stand we are up to our knees in your shit!”

“I am going to tan your hide until you learn a little respect… no I’m not going to stop until I am finished, be quiet until I have finished, you insolent whelp. As I was saying you are going to learn your place in this matter, then we are going to march back out there and you are going to sit there respectfully and eat whatever bowl of shit the Starks feed you and you are going to smile and thank them for it!”

“Am I understood? Am I understood!?” Ramsay had been babbling one plea and apology after the other, desperate to be free, but it was clear that his father wanted clear affirmation rather than simple surrender, so at last he yelled out as clearly as he could manage, still racked with spasms from the repeated blows administered to him.

“Y-yes! Yes I understand! P-please, father, I’ll do as you say! I-I’ll play nice with the Starks, please by all the gods, please stop!” Roose’s eyes narrowed and Ramsay became uncertain that his message had been received or accepted properly, because the older man continued right on hitting him, causing Ramsay’s underside to practically glow with the tenderness created with such a hiding.

So he repeated it, and then he repeated it again, all the while flailing in a most embarrassing fashion against the iron grip of Rom, hoping in the deepest recesses of his mind that no one yet watched to see him humiliate himself with such a display, but so frenzied in his need for freedom from the terrible sting that he no longer cared.

It became clear over time that Roose was simply finishing his count, Ramsay recognizing the concentration of a man plugging through numbers as he doled out the rest of what he had promised. So he relaxed himself back into fitful sobbing, his body slack except for the occasional jump as he involuntarily twitched to the pain.

Finally though it was done, and Roose stepped away from the panting Ramsay, whom Rom hadn’t even needed to really hold down for some time now, so tired had Ramsay become from his struggles that his surrender had become as physical as it had been verbal. “Get yourself presentable and dry your tears, boy.”

Roose turned and left the room, leaving Ramsay to slowly rise and straighten his disheveled clothing as Rom gave him a needed assist in sitting up, the servant’s hands almost gentle after all the time they had spent forcefully pinning him to the table a strange contrast to Ramsay’s mind. He used the sleeves of his tunic to dab at his eyes.

He also kept his gaze away from Rom, not wanting even the servant to see the red limned orbs that were so full of hurt and shame. He had to wonder then if Jon or worse, Sansa, would see that he had been bawling his eyes out like some weeping child over the already humiliating position his father had placed him in.

He decided that he would be best served to take some time in returning, as Roose had not commanded a time frame in his doing so. After all that he had just suffered, Ramsay was most certainly not eager to return to room, especially given the command that his father had given him in no uncertain terms. It was time to eat shit and smile about it.


	12. Destiny

Audio chapter:

<https://app.box.com/s/nhv5v3bee4w8lm9upw4mipkzvqykkuu7>

Chapter 12: Destiny

Ramsay waited. He might have continued to wait, too, but apparently Rom was set on making things continue along just as uncomfortably as always. The bronzed servant nudged him gently but persistently until Ramsay stood up, "You should not keep your father waiting, young master. He will be irate if he thinks you attempt to take advantage of the time he has given you to recover."

The young Bolton scowled, shoving Rom's hand away in a petulant, irritated maneuver, "After all he does to me, how could he expect me to jump to make him happy?"

Rom frowned at him, waving a finger at Ramsay as he replied, "After all he has done to you, how could you expect him to reward you with anything more than the same if you continue acting out?"

Ramsay huffed, "I'm no 'acting out'…" He gave Rom another quick glance and then wiped at his nose self-consciously as he quickly made his way to the door, "Let us go finish this mockery then; I know that I have certainly had my fill of it all. I sincerely hope that Wildlings sack Winterfell after we have vacated it; that would teach that bitch."

Rom did not merit Ramsay's grumbling with a response as they made their way back to the hall, where Jon Snow and Roose Bolton were apparently locked in a bout of staring uncomfortably at each other. Ramsay sat back into the chair he had been in before grumpily, immediately regretting setting himself down so hard as the hard wooden chair punished his tender backside for his thoughtlessness.

Ramsay quickly discovered that the Lord Commander and his father seemed to have been waiting for him, as only once he had planted himself in his seat did they immediately start speaking, with Jon leading the discussion, "If I was to take you for your word such as it is, Warden, you are only here to inform me that you are leaving Winterfell."

Roose nodded slowly, his tone calm, "Indeed. I could have sent a raven, but it would have been far too impersonal given what has transpired between our two families."

Sansa took this moment to speak at last, causing all eyes to turn to her unexpected addition to the conversation, "That is not the only reason; you want some sort of official pledge that we are no longer at war."

Several people whom had finally relaxed a little went right back to being tense, including Jon Snow, but Roose took her comment in stride, nodding a simple affirmative, "I assumed you might regard us with great hostility to have run as you did, and it did not escape my thoughts that you might still consider us enemies even if we deserted Winterfell."

"So you make a grandiose gesture of returning that which you are abandoning in hopes that it will quell the feud you started with our House, the one that Ramsay reignited and inflamed even after I had come to you in an attempt to make peace and reforge our ancient alliance?"

Once again Roose only nodded, his pale eyes steady, "Yes. My son has erred, and I wish to set the matter behind us both, that our future generations are not plagued further by it."

Jon began to respond, but Sansa spoke quickly, interrupting what he might have said, "Do you think that merely withdrawing would be enough? Certainly I desire our ancestral home returned, but if you actually intend me to forgive anything done…"

Roose shifted uncomfortably in a way that Ramsay took as a resigned, annoyed gesture; he had known this was coming and probably planned on it, but was none the less displeased with having to deal with it, "I assume you are implying that you wish for our House to compensate you. I can agree to some form of tribute within reason if it would at least serve as a first step in quelling the tide of animosity that now exists between us."

He gestured to one of the men that had escorted him in, that man holding himself at the ready, as if expecting an order from his liege, "I have brought silver and a variety of accompaniments that would serve the men of the Watch well in weathering the winter, and while I don't know all of the details, of course, I assume the large group of… men you have taken in from north of the wall could also use them."

Roose had turned his gaze to Jon as he spoke, but once again it was Sansa that spoke before her half-brother could reply, "I don't think that this tribute you've conjured, though practical, is a fitting offering concerning it was I and not Jon that bore the brunt of Ramsay's disservice." '

This comment left the room quiet and no less tense as Roose seemed to mull over what she had stated a moment, his expression giving an impression as if he had put some food in his mouth and didn't find that it tasted satisfactory and was perhaps considering spitting it out instead of swallowing it. At length though he finally responded.

"I see. Ramsay's uncharitable actions during his brief tenure as your husband would count as a grievance of a more personal nature to the Lady Stark. I have brought what I could to illustrate the aid I'm willing to show the Lord Commander and the Watch as a whole, but what might be done to assist in restoring wounded Stark honor?"

There were varying degrees of both acceptance and malice in Roose's words that set everyone in the room on edge, even Ramsay, but Sansa didn't bat an eye, apparently having already known what it was that she wanted. Ramsay saw why she knew too even before she spoke, his mouth agape as he took in the sight of the flaxen-haired woman whom had spied on him before standing in Sansa's shadow.

"As is a customary tradition between two of the great Houses, we the Starks demand that Ramsay Bolton, oldest heir to the Bolton estate, be held as Ward to House Stark until such time as relations between the two Houses have mended enough to allow his return to his family."

Roose's eyes flashed and disgruntled sounds filled the room, "That right is typically demanded of a House upon defeat in the field of battle."

The Warden leaned forward a bit and leveled Sansa with a dangerously serious expression, "I hope you are not taking advantage of my desire for peace between our Houses, especially when it could more likely be sustained that MY House has defeated your own, not the other way around. You strain what may be gained through negotiation."

For her part the Lady of Winterfell kept her own blue gaze locked with Roose's unrelenting steely eyes, shaking her head ever so slightly. "I believe there are stipulations that change the nature of this particular request. For one, Ramsay and I remain wedded until such a time as the marriage is formally annulled."

Roose sat back soberly, his expression one of mild interest as Sansa went on, "I am offering to sustain your attempt at a union between our once great Houses if you will relent to allowing your son to become my Ward."

One of the men Roose had brought with him shook his head, an ugly grimace on his face, "How would that even work? That's…"

"Shut up." The man, whom by his dress and armor was likely the prominent son of a lesser House, went quiet as Roose silenced him with those two words, the Warden leaning in again to regard Sansa seriously. "I could take this arrangement as an insult; most Lords would. But I came here to fix my son's mistakes, and it would be fitting for him to do some of the heavy lifting himself."

Ramsay's eyes bulged and the playful smirk he had been entertaining fell away. He had been all but certain up until just a moment ago that his father was not only going to tell Sansa no but perhaps that the old man might even become incensed enough by her haughty attitude that he might abandon his course of reconciliation with the Starks entirely.

"What?"

His father only shot him a pointed glare in response to his dumbfounded question, a look that said in no uncertain terms that Ramsay was pushing his luck by saying even that, and that he had best quiet himself before something unpleasant happened again. His gaping mouth snapped closed and his gaze dropped to the table even as his cheeks flushed with heat.

Roose went on then as if there had not been any interruption, apparently satisfied that Ramsay was sufficiently mollified. "You may keep Ramsay as your Ward, but since you are no conqueror setting ultimatums, he comes to you with the stipulation that he may not be mistreated. As fitting as it might be for Ramsay to suffer his own medicine, I won't allow it."

Sansa stiffened in her seat but she didn't look entirely surprised with Roose's demand as the Warden continued, "You may punish him if he earns it, but I am well aware of the sort of games my son indulged in, and I need him unscarred and whole if he is to continue to provide a legacy for our House, so I must be certain you don't intend to maim him or mar his ability to function in his station."

Ramsay's teeth gnashed each other at the torrent of unbelievable words he heard coming from his father right next to him. Punish him? Sansa was to punish HIM?! His eyes trailed back over to the servant whom was still hiding behind Sansa's large wooden chair, the same one whom had spied on him before.

His father must have seen her and put two and two together as Ramsay had. He had realized that Sansa knew how Ramsay had been treated, and also guessed much as Ramsay had as to why she was suddenly trying to procure him peacefully under the guise making him her 'Ward'. She wanted to torment him in a way she already knew to be effective.

Worse, he himself had given her all of the incentive to want to pull Ramsay down even further than his father had thus far managed by acting so mollified after his public display of hubris. Sansa had likely been surprised by his recent less than subtle change in mannerisms, and her curiosity over the fact that his father had reigned him in would be overshadowed by HOW he did it.

It was more likely than not that even as she and his father spoke Sansa plotted out how she would 'discipline' him so as to stay within his father's guidelines. Ramsay knew from personal experience as a torturer that there were oh so many ways to hurt a person without marring or maiming them. Sweat broke out on his brow and his mouth opened and closed furtively as he tried to think of what to say.

But the was nothing to say; the occasional glance attributed him by his father made it very clear to Ramsay that any attempt to speak up and interrupt or even join this conversation would be a grave error he would come to regret post haste. Would his father punish him or have Rom punish him right here in the meeting hall?

He shuddered at the thought, not at all certain that it was not entirely a possibility with the way his father had been handling things thus far. The mere idea that Roose might do such a humiliating thing as an openly public spectacle right here before the Lord Commander and whatever Lords he might have standing present sent shivers down Ramsay's spine.

So he kept his mouth firmly shut, merely waiting tensely and feeling a single bead of sweat work its way down his heated forehead as he waited for Sansa's reaction to Roose's terms. Jon Snow spoke first, though, "No. I can't agree to this arrangement; He betrayed Rob and he's already failed at a marriage alliance."

Sansa's eyes cut to Jon and it was clear his interjection was unexpected, but though her jaw law shifted ever so slightly hinting that perhaps she clenched her teeth a bit in frustration, she did not move to deny his involvement. After all, his point was valid and without his support she had no army. Ramsay felt a fluttering gust of relief; it seemed Jon was going to be his savior.

"We have Rickon Stark." Gasps filled the room from those who knew the name spoken and the implication of Roose having him, and Jon's dark eyes grew darker still as a dangerous scowl descended upon his features. Before anything could be assumed, though, Roose gestured dismissively, "He awaits your decision to return home from a place of comfort back in Winterfell."

Jon's brow turned up in confused frustration, a decidedly bad air for a man holding the title of Lord Commander, Ramsay thought. The Stark bastard shifted in his chair and looked to Sansa for reply. When she did it was accompanied with a simple nod of assent, her tone neutral as if the two of them were discussing grain trade rather than Ramsay's future.

"Very well. You shall ride ahead of our occupying force and we shall watch you abandon Winterfell to its rightful owners, then you shall give Ramsay to me as Ward to solidify the faltering union that has existed between our families since the war with the Lannisters. He will be returned to you upon such a day as when your vows to abandon hostility have been proven."

Roose smiled, "But by then hopefully such a thing will be unnecessary; it is my hope at least that House Stark will seek correction of the instability in the North as much as I do, and will have decided to remain true to the commitment we have both made in uniting our great Houses through marriage for the betterment of all."

Sansa only returned Roose's humorless false grin with an unamused stare, "We shall see; as long as House Bolton returns to its holdings and you, Roose Bolton, abandon the title given to you by a false king seated by the enemies of the North."

The room tensed again; many had been expecting this clearly, and Ramsay held out hope against hope that this would be the deal breaker.

But that was not the case. He supposed his father had hinted many times that this was the inevitable end of the arrangement sought; he would have to cede from his hard-won power. The Warden mirrored Sansa's nod and spoke congenially, "Indeed. I, Roose Bolton, do hereby renounce before all powers present any holdings and powers granted to me by our former enemies."

The room was then filled with a large diversity of different energies as many present reacted to the same statement with very different sentiments. Jon Snow and his councilor looked quite surprised, Ramsay and many others on the Bolton side of the table were aghast at Roose's voluntary absolution of his own power.

Rom, Roose and Sansa Stark were calm, though, and the former Warden stared intently at the last holder of the Stark name as she patiently stared right back, as if each were testing to see if this arrangement would last longer than the time it took to put it in words. After all, Sansa Stark had once before sought this alliance under similarly awkward circumstances.

The fact that she was willing to do it again floored Ramsay, especially since he knew firsthand how terribly she had suffered for that awful decision. He had been the one to make it terrible after all. But perhaps he shouldn't be so surprised; Ramsay had always sensed a core of resolve in Sansa, since at first at least she had been bad at hiding it.

Now though she was totally unreadable, a stony expression guarding her features perfectly as her icy gaze passed over Ramsay. She wasn't afraid of him; she may have been once but she wasn't anymore. The assembly began to churn with quiet discussion as Roose Bolton rose from his seat and nodded respectfully to Jon, calling an end to their parlay.

Ramsay opened his mouth yet again, feeling an incredibly strong urge to say SOMETHING, anything at all in his own defense from this terrible ordeal that was being orchestrated around him and about him. To have no control at all over his own fate and the events that shaped his destiny going forward was a helplessness that he found to be a bitter taste in his mouth.

Of course, the moment he thought to address the table and specifically Sansa one more time, his father turned sharply towards him and leveled him with a glare that was unquestionably a promise for swift and terrible retribution should he dare continue in his effort to make a last snide remark or argument to what had already been decided.

Rom took him by the arm then, and Ramsay was led away from the meeting hall in a manner that strongly suggested that the foreign servant also believed that his moment in the spotlight was also to be denied this go around. Ramsay had made a bit of a show of it the last time, so on some level he understood his father and Rom for not wanting him to speak at all.

But that didn't make being silenced easier to bear, and for a dangerous moment Ramsay considered shouting something over his shoulder exactly as he had before, but even as the consideration passed through his thoughts Ramsay took a step with Rom and felt the fabric of his trousers brush the tender flesh of his buttocks.

Even now the acute pain delivered unto him by his father as his most recent punishment throbbed at even the slightest touch of his clothing, a grave reminder of how seriously his father had taken this meeting, what he had done about Ramsay's attitude, and what he was likely still capable of doing. Ramsay gulped, pushing his voice back down.

Instead he went along with Rom meekly enough, not wanting a repeat of what had so recently transpired, even if it did mean that Ramsay had to swallow back the rising bile of letting Sansa have her way. Of letting her and his father dictate his future without giving him any real say in the matter, though he was certain Roose knew his thoughts on the issue.

In an incredibly sour mood and feeling a little numb, looking around as his father's procession made its way back to the gate, Ramsay felt like he was looking at his life as if from the view of another. It all just felt so surreal; he never would have imagined he would be passed off to the Starks as a Ward, that this would be his father's choice.

They had to wait for a while upon their horses in the cold as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch readied his forces, so that they would not be too far behind Roose and would be able to see clearly when Ramsay's father evacuated Winterfell of his own forces. They would likely be expecting betrayal, and rightly they should.

Once they finally got to moving Ramsay squirmed in the saddle; he was so very tender in the seat and the leather saddle did little to shield him from the pain caused him by not only sitting, but sitting upon a horse, whose every hoofbeat sounded out a symphony of pain in Ramsay's backside. He did his best to ignore it as he grimaced.

Instead he put his focus forward and had his mare trot up close to Roose Bolton's own horse, so that he might speak to his father without shouting. He flashed a desperate, hopeful smile Roose's way and spoke up, "This is very clever father… get our enemies to leave their defensible fortress and march them out into the open tundra before Winterfell."

The idea of this being the case in truth really appealed to Ramsay, so his voice became lively and animated as he said it, "They'll be easy pickings! And with Jon dead…"

His tirade was cut short by Roose's no nonsense reply, "The entirety of civilization will close down upon us like a vise for a scenario that would prove everyone whomever declared us traitorous villains correct."

Ramsay's face fell, his growing smile replaced with a frown as Roose nodded in a way that suggested he return to his place in the ranks, "Just accept the fate bestowed on you Ramsay; at least you're not dead."

Ramsay barred his teeth at that, but did reply; his father wasn't going to be hearing it anyways, and he already knew what to expect if he pushed things too far. As he horse resumed its previous cantor he shifted in his saddle once again, painfully aware of just how long a trip it was going to be to return to Winterfell.


	13. Unlucky

Audio chapter: <https://app.box.com/s/4avrfd97dvhnjlld7w8mftrh6h31nmll>

Chapter 13: Unlucky

The trip was long and arduous as it had been before, though Ramsay like his father had fewer concerns pertaining to the extreme cold and other dangers of traversing the long road back to Winterfell. Every man in their entourage was tasked with some item of importance pertaining to keeping the two Lords of the House safe.

They slept in a large tent that took two horses to carry, big enough to accommodate an indoor fire without threat of burning down, and with an ample selection of furs to bundle up with during the long chill hours of the night. A soldier perished in his sleep from how very cold it got, but that was because he had wet his gear rolling in the snow after taking a bad tumble.

Despite the advice of his fellows, the warrior had insisted that his travel cloak and a warm fire would be enough to see him to morning. His fire had burned out in the night after the cold had caused him to drowse, and he never woke. Ramsay never thought twice about the fate of that poor soldier, however, he had a more serious concern.

His ass hurt. As never before, what with the cold making him even more sensitive and his bruises ripening to create entirely new levels of soreness and ache, the damned ceaseless march that drove them forward creating an unending torrent of bounces and bumps as his horse strode along the path. Ramsay had never truly appreciated how much a horse moved its rider until that day.

Each and every step that the large beast took not only sent a jolt of pain ricocheting through his body but also served as a reminder of events from the Wall that Ramsay continued having to spend more and more time trying to forget. Eventually he gave up trying, and found himself darkly brooding over both what happened and the situation that followed suit.

He glanced around at the throng that surrounded him, at times bleakly wondering if anyone would truly care if he slipped from the saddle and was trampled by the horses. Of course, given his luck such an attempt would fail and Roose would invest the manpower in assuring that Ramsay did not freeze as that soldier had.

Not only that, but his father would probably be cross with him; he was his only adult heir after all. Babies often did not survive their first year in Westeros, so Roose's new son was certainly no sure bet, with Roose having another child to replace him even more unlikely. He was getting pretty old, after all; Ramsay was surprised he could still get it up.

Would his father then be upset at his attempted suicide? The thought could not be banished, especially with the continued discomfort coming from his seat; would Roose spank him again as punishment for trying to reduce their House yet again? With great effort Ramsay pushed the troublesome pondering away, grimacing in irritation.

So with a grim determination to avoid further humiliation in the immediate future and not really all that keen on dying despite how depraved his life was becoming, Ramsay tried instead to think of how he might best turn this terrible tide around. He would at last be free of Rom, and that simple thought alone was a balm to his wounded pride.

Who knew, maybe with time Sansa would be foolish enough to let her guard down and he could have her 'accidentally' fall from a tower window or something. Poison had served him well enough in dealing with his older brother in the past… of course this would have to be after Ramsay had secured himself as the ruler of Winterfell.

Then his family would gain the Stark lands all over again, and more 'legitimately' this time; his father would be so proud. Why then did the idea of setting out on this venture not fill him with optimism then? Something felt off; a something that continued to pester him as each and every bounce in his saddle reminded him of Sansa's intentions for him.

It was going to be a long, hard road fraught with a thousand indignities and he knew it. The thought of having to climb that terrible mountain of adversity and persecution did not sit well with Ramsay, whom had lived a life of relative ease. He had skirted most of the labors afforded him in life and gotten away with it, but now he was going to struggle.

With every mile they put behind them Ramsay's anxiety over the fact that they drew closer to Winterfell and therefore the trade that would inevitably put him within Sansa Stark's clutches grew ever greater. The more closely those stone walls loomed in the distance the more real the notion that he was going to soon be completely at her mercy became.

At first he bolstered himself with more thoughts on how he would weather the storm, of how he would one day perhaps soon turn the tide upon feeble Sansa and not only regain his father's respect but also make himself the most powerful man in the North. Being as the North was the largest of the Seven by far, that would make him the most powerful man in Westeros!

Assuming of course that they did not accept the claim of sovereignty placed by the current ruler of King's Landing. With political affairs as pear-shaped as they had become lately and little news from the capitol, Ramsay wasn't actually certain where his father and therefore the Bolton clan would stand on the North-South relations.

All of that aside, Ramsay was quickly losing his nerve. Hollow promises to himself concerning matters of which he could only imagine did little to strengthen his resolve. As their train of soldiers and courtiers moved in on Winterfell Ramsay looked back over his shoulder and felt his throat pull tight as the long black snake of Jon Snow's following forces several miles behind them.

Once they arrived at Winterfell it would be too late. He would be unable to avoid the fate ascribed by Sansa to him through the generous assertions of his own father. Ramsay would be surrounded on all sides by soldiers and partisans whom had never liked him and not a soul would voice a note of dissent as Roose handed him to the enemy.

Ramsay would likely then be imprisoned in the dungeons and Sansa would… but he couldn't allow himself to dwell on that. As a man whom had reveled in the darkest reaches of sadism, Ramsay knew better than most what sorts of things could be done to a man. His recent experiences with his father's lackeys had been mild compared to what Sansa must wish on him.

Wasp had been cruel but Sansa had so many REASONS to want him to suffer. Such drive would lead her down any path needed to make sure that he got what she felt he had coming to him, and Ramsay felt a chill run down his spine just in allowing his own mind to even generalize thought on what kind of twisted events that could lead to.

His eyes widened as he considered Sansa's attitude towards Reek, and how she had eventually convinced even sad little Theon Greyjoy to help her in escaping. Would she wish Ramsay to suffer as Reek had, being as she seemed to have such strong connection to her father's Ward? Was taking Ramsay as Ward foreshadowing his own gelding?

No. He shook his head once fiercely at the dialogue he wasn't truly having with much of anyone. His father had been very specific; Ramsay was to be unmaimed, and further he was to remain fit for his duties as an heir, which would of course necessitate procreation. He couldn't rightly continue the Bolton line with no pecker.

But would Sansa care? Once she had regained Winterfell and Jon placed enough forces inside it to repel any attempt by the Boltons to lay siege, Sansa and Jon both would be free to do as they pleased. After all, who was going to come to Roose Bolton's aid? He frowned as his father's worries settled in; what irony that they were so vulnerable to treachery.

His father wasn't much of a gambling man, not like Ramsay. He liked surety of outcome, and if this was his best plan of action, he was at the very least absolutely confident in Stark honor and the Stark word. Sure, they have been known for ages for their virtues, but then Sansa wasn't like other Starks now, not after what he had done to her…

It did not escape Ramsay that it was very likely that Sansa might seek duplicitous means to break her covenant with Roose in order to hurt Ramsay because Ramsay had taught her to be this way. He could sense it in her; she had hardened into something even stronger than what she had already been when he had laid his hands on her.

No, he had to find some way to escape this terrible fate, and his only opportunity now presented itself in the last evening of camping they would do before their march landed them in Winterfell. That evening as the soldiers and minor nobles that Roose had brought with him unfurled their tents and began setup Ramsay took a long look at the surrounding terrain.

What he planned would be beyond difficult, with a fair chance of failure given that they were camping on a snowy plain of which there were few trees and little else in the way of obscuring natural phenomena. The soldiers would have fires burning through the night, and on top of that more than a few of them would be watchful.

Jon Snow's forces followed on their heels, of course, and while many a man had been heard swearing that no son of a Stark would be so brazenly dastardly as to attack Roose's encampment while it slept, not every person in Roose's entourage was convinced of such good will. After all, attacking Roose's group while outside of Winterfell might be Jon's best option.

And Jon had plenty of reason to suspect that Roose himself planned treachery upon their arrival at Winterfell. So the soldiers would be wary at the least, making the escape of even a single figure into the night a difficult if not impossible task with the almost total lack of cover Ramsay would be having to work with.

He cursed silently within his own mind, scanning around for anything that might help him manage his escape and feeling more desperate with each step that he took in which he did not manage to find a way to salvation. He continued in this activity all the way up to the point when he could see Rom coming to tell him to take his final rest before reaching Winterfell.

That sense of urgency building within him was almost intolerable, but Ramsay did his best to keep his face calm and carry himself as if he wasn't a man on the brink of panic. He couldn't let this happen! If Sansa got hold of him who knew how many times and in what ways she would use what her spy had uncovered against him!

He had to escape! Ramsay continued to cast about his eyes for something he could use, even as those around him hurried to get inside their own tents and shield themselves from the whipping cold of the tundra he still stood upon. Too many men yet waited out in that frigid atmosphere, their fear of Jon overriding their desire for needed warmth.

Ramsay suspected they would only be replaced with another rotation of watchmen when they grew too cold and tired to continue looking out, so simply waiting them out wasn't an option. Rom had grown close now and was eying Ramsay closely, so the Bolton heir let out a defeated sigh, knowing he didn't have any more time to plan for the moment.

With a heavy sigh Ramsay followed the foreign servant to the great tent that he and Roose shared, finding his sleeping cot and laying himself down to sleep without waiting for his father to return to share 'pleasantries'. He closed his eyes and listened intently as he feigned sleep, satisfied after a few minutes that Rom had left enough to check by looking.

A cursory glance told him that Rom was off to sleep in his own tent as he had every other night, leaving only Ramsay's father to bypass in exiting the tent. He waited until Roose came in a while later, clearly exhausted from staying up late doing whatever he'd been doing, and without a word to the pretend-sleeping Ramsay Roose lay himself down to sleep.

Now all that was left was to wait for the old man to sleep! Ramsay felt an inferno of desire to get up and look for his escape but the risk that his father might yet be wake was great enough to tamp down even his incredible impatience. The last thing Ramsay needed was for Roose to catch him before he had even made it outside of the tent!

He had no doubt whatsoever what grisly trial would be initiated after such a failure, Ramsay's mouth twisting in disdain merely at the thought of it. Once he heard the soft sound of heavy breathing that signaled his father's deep sleep, only then did he slip carefully from his cot and wrap his traveling furs about himself.

With a quick, nervous glance back at his father's motionless, prostrate form Ramsay moved as quickly as he could to exit the tent while still remaining as quiet as possible. His heart hammered in his chest as he skulked as low as he could to the ground without falling head over heels into the snow. His eyes darted from one campfire to the next.

Any moment now one of these soldiers will see me and raise a fuss that will end my attempt, he thought to himself. Time was of the essence, and since he knew a straight shot away from camp would be seen, he began to work on the plan he had dreamed up while lying in wait for his father to return to the great tent.

Ramsay had once advised his father of a strategy to defeat Stannis Baratheon before that man could march his forces from the Wall to Winterfell. He had even assisted the Bolton rangers personally in setting fire to the Baratheon stores, thus causing many of Stannis' men to abandon their effort on account of the shortage of supplies.

Of course, losing their supply train so close to Winterfell would do little to actually harm Roose's entourage, but the men would rush to protect them none the less and that would be all that Ramsay needed in the form of a distraction. With the cargo ablaze panic would ensue to put the fire out and reclaim what they could from the pillaged stores.

With a great deal of care Ramsay crept over to where the stores were kept, sighting a torch planted in the ground a short ways from the cargo for the sake of visibility that would be perfect for setting the whole thing aflame. No sooner had he moved to take the torch though than a voice called out from behind him, "Hey! What are you doing there?"

Ramsay whirled to take in the sight of a thin soldier stomping across the snow towards him; Ramsay must have missed him when he scanned the area for threats. From the direction the soldier was coming from Ramsay guessed he had come from a tent nearby the stores, likely loitering just out of Ramsay's view or sitting when Ramsay had passed by.

Which meant that he had already seen that Ramsay was creeping around low to the ground and was therefore up to nothing good. The idea to use the torch as a weapon and fight flashed to Ramsay's mind but the commotion brought another soldier from the same tent and Ramsay let out a frustrated sigh at his own terrible luck.

"Oh, this?" Ramsay smiled as disarmingly as he could manage, "I was out for a walk and wanted to be able to see. It's awful dark out here isn't it?"

The soldier glared at him, "Then why are you creeping about like some sort of spook?"

Ramsay smiled, closing his eyes and shrugging as he allowed himself to sway a bit, "I'll admit… I'm fairly deep into my cups…"

The first man to approach stared at him, clearly evaluating whether or not he bought the lie, but the attempt was foiled as the second man shouted, "Oy! That's Ramsay Bolton you twat! Rom came round earlier and told us all to make sure he doesn't go leaving his tent. Put that torch down and march yourself back where you belong young lord."

Ramsay's teeth showed as his lips peeled back in a dismayed snarl, "I'm the first-born son of the Lord you've sworn fealty to; I'll not be commanded about by some common footman!"

The second man had made his way across the snow to where the other two stood now, a short but thick man bundled tightly in furs, "Then we'll be forced to take you to that same Lord and see what he thinks on the matter of your skulking about."

With a nod the first man frowned at Ramsay, "Aye; you're not drunk, that's clear. I'm certain now we need to report this suspicious behavior no matter the case as is."

Ramsay's eyes widened as he realized how pear-shaped everything had suddenly gone. It was clear that these men were going to give him up now.

With a desperate cry Ramsay threw the torch at the two men, whom jumped back with bewildered looks of shock as the young Bolton fled through the snow towards the area of camp where the horses were tied. He was already in deep shit, he thought; he might as well make a run for it! The snow bogged down his flight, and it quickly became clear that the commotion had roused the camp.

At every strained step through the slowing terrain it became clearer to Ramsay that he wasn't going to get anywhere near the horses, as angry shouting and dark-clad figures pressed in from all sides, nearly the entire encampment awoken from their slumber and on high alert as to what all the yelling was about.

As Rom stepped in front of his panting form, Ramsay finally relented his attempt to hurry to an escape that failed in its infancy. The bronzed servant only watched him for a moment as he sagged down into the snow, his body heaving for breath from the strain of his mad dash, before gesturing away, "Come young master; your father would have a word with you."

Ramsay's heart had already been hammering away within his chest as if the most fervent smith in the world sought to reshape him through sheer vigor alone, but still hearing this caused him to flinch as he felt that overburdened heart jump in a thrill of trepidation that reverberated throughout the entirety of his being.

He swallowed slowly as he pressed his hands to the churned earth and gradually rose to standing on shaking legs. There were many things he wanted to say, most of them a negative to Rom's simple statement that had been heard as a command to follow, but in the end Ramsay let his head fall and followed the servant as the roused camp watched his subdued march.

They weren't that far away from the tent he had started in, the one he shared with his father, but with all of those eyes watching his walk of shame the space between where he had surrendered and the great tent seemed to yawn into a much greater gulf than it had been previously. His jaw worked as he clenched his hands, wishing they would all just get back in their tents.

A part of him wanted furiously to shout at them to mind their own bloody business and fuck off, but with the injured state that his dwindled reputation held, he worried now what would happen if they refused. After all he wasn't actually in any position to enforce any form of threat anymore; they were even now likely thinking how like a whipped mutt he looked.

Ramsay snarled but it was a half-hearted thing; he just couldn't summon enough anger to overturn the amalgam of shame and regret he now felt for attempting his most recent failed venture, and the look fell from his features entirely as he entered the great tent and observed the steely glare of his father peering back at him.

His eyes immediately found the ground and Ramsay opened his mouth despite not being entirely sure what it was that he should say but knowing that he needed to say something, "Father I…"

"No." Roose said in a clipped tone, cutting Ramsay short as the younger man blinked at him in a mixture of surprise and apprehension. "No more excuses. Rom?"

The older servant moved to clasp the tent flap shut, drawing the heavy leather cover down before turning to Ramsay. With a sudden, violent motion the foreigner grasped Ramsay's trousers and yanked them down to his knees. The Bolton heir cried out in shock at the audacious maneuver, reaching down to attempt to halt him too late.

With a shove followed by a firm grip Rom hauled Ramsay across the tent to Roose's awaiting lap, the Bolton noble having already sat down in anticipation of his servant's dutiful response. Ramsay's eyes opened widely as he gave a dismayed cry over how quickly things had escalated beyond the point of no return.

"F-father, wait! You haven't even heard my side of the story yet! There is- Ow!" Ramsay's attempt to stall was cut short as Roose's callused hand swatted his buttocks hard, the force with which his father punished him indicative of how annoyed the Bolton Lord was with Ramsay's most recent lapse into delinquent behavior.

The older Bolton shook his head as he leveled a severe look at his son, Ramsay's frightened blue eyes peering back at him from over his own shoulder as the younger Bolton struggled in vain to be free, "I already told you, boy; no more excuses. All throughout our lives together every time I have ever scolded you, you have always immediately resorted to some excuse or the other."

"No more! Let this be a lesson to you in future of how I shall react to further attempts to absolve yourself from having to pay the piper. You would do best to immediately apologize upon being discovered in whatever happenstance that has led you to trouble from here on, or I am going to start tripling the punishments."

Ramsay's eyes bulged at the implication of what Roose was telling him. Triple the punishments? As it was, they were going to be having a very long and grueling experience within the confine of the great tent if Roose doubled his last punishment, but if he tripled it… was that what his father planned? Ramsay squirmed at the thought.

"B-but father, there has clearly been a misunderstanding! I was merely having a walk to calm my nerves, and was being harassed by the so-…" Ramsay hissed as Roose's tempo increased, his father's hand also coming down significantly harder than it had been mere moments before.

"Feeding me your pathetic lies will only worsen what is already a deep hole you've dug, son."

Panic raced through Ramsay like a gale force wind, his heart thrumming out a fast beat to the sound of his father's words. There was nothing he could say, he realized. He let go of his quickly formulated plot to tell his father that he had only made a lesser violation in leaving the tent for a more innocent vocation, realizing that Roose knew better, able to see in both men's faces that they knew he had been trying to escape.

Ramsay's hands gripped the cot tightly as his brow furrowed with the collective worry that knowing what was coming to him bestowed. As his father's hand fell, creating a loud, sharp sound that he was certain the leather frame of the tent did little to muffle, Ramsay did his best not to cry out, squirming under the harsh reprisal.

Clamping his mouth tightly shut was not enough to keep his rebellious voice in check though, made even more apparent when his muted gasps of pain were replaced by full on cries of agony as Rom handed his father his belt sometime after the event had started. Ramsay had done well at enduring his punishment stoically thus far, but the leather strap was too much for his tortured flesh to endure.

He wasn't certain why his father had not started with the belt as he had before, but by Ramsay's count he had received at least as many swats by hand as he had by belt last time, so perhaps his father was being careful not to strap him enough to cut his flesh. Ramsay knew a thing or two about whippings; that meant Roose intended to hit him a LOT more.

Trying and failing to push the thought from his mind as his suffering continued in silence, all Ramsay could think about was how his father clearly intended for this particular admonishment to indeed be three times as long as the last, with twice as much belting. He found himself wishing Roose had started with his hand; this way things only ramped up to become worse.

Ramsay screamed loudly as his voice became unbound on account of the severe pain brought on by this flagellation. Since he had already begun to debase himself in a manner that certainly was heard by the entirety of the camp, he realized there was no point in trying any longer to save face, and began to beg his father to release him.

"P-please, father; let this be enough! I-I am sorry I disobeyed, I knew I should not have left the tent without permission… I just don't want to go with Sansa tomorrow; she will hurt me and I am afraid! I am afraid, father!" His voice managed only just barely to be heard above the sound of his own sobbing, his gasping for air making it hard to speak.

Tears bled from his eyes copiously as his father's stern features locked onto his own, "I would have gladly spoken on this matter with you and offered you advice concerning dealing with Sansa, Ramsay, but our arrangement is already struck. We have an obligation to our family name to uphold for the survival of us all."

His father raised an eyebrow at him as he went limp in Roose's lap, the repeated swats causing him to jump occasionally to the tune of the sharp pains that came with them, "Besides, it is as I have been telling you all along; there is nothing to this that you did not earn by merit of your own actions. Sansa's enmity is something that you earned, and thusly whatever she does to punish you is likewise earned."

Ramsay didn't object or argue anymore, instead sinking into his father's lap and the cot as he sobbed, shutting his eyes against the cruel world that afforded him only the justice he had always told himself he was above receiving. Finally, at a time long past when Ramsay had lost count his father set the belt aside before giving him once last firm warning, "The advice I would have given would have been and remains this; Do not anger the Starks. Even a bear is not a predator when surrounded by hungry wolves. Your luck has run out. Do not rely on it to save you from yourself."


End file.
